THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

Ex  Libris 

Katharine  F.  Richmond 

and 
Henry  C.  Fall 


3455. 


r 


BETTER  IN  THE  MORNIF. 


ID  S 


PATHOS,    HUMOR,    AND     SATIRE, 


BY 


REV.    LEANDER    S.    COAN. 


''LET    ME    WRITE    THE    BALLADS    OF    A    PEOPLE,    AND    I    CARE    NOT 
WHO    WRITES    THEIR    LAWS." 


(great  Jalte,  'N.  f^. 

EDWARD     O.     LORD     AND     COMPANY. 

1880. 


Copyright. 

1880. 
By    EDWARD    O.    LORD    &    Co, 


BoelmtU  *   CkvnkiU,  Printer*,  !»  -4rc»  Street,  Be»to». 


TS 
135-6, 


TO    ALL    WHO    HAVE    WEPT    WITH    ME    IN    SYMPATHY    FOR 


AND    TO     ALL     WHO      ARE     LOYAL     TO    THE     CAUSE     IN    WHICH     HE     WAS 

MAIMED, 


Uolume  10  ^ffecttonatelg  ©etoicateli 


THE     AUTHOR. 


1066146 


For  to-day  I  write  with  pen  made  sharp, 

Though  carping  critics  smile  and  carp ; 

Of  yesterday  write,  though  blinded  by  tears, 

For  hearing  having  neither  haste  nor  fears  ; 

t 

For  to-morrow,  pen  with  patient  thought, 
With  fear  nothing,  with  malice  naught; 
With  patience  sow  my  seed,  and  then 
Await  the  tears  and  smiles  of  men, 
And  strive  no  single  word  to  trace 
I  might  with  tears  wish  to  erase. 


CONTENTS. 


PART    I. 

OLD     CORPORAL     BALLADS. 

Introduction      ...........  13 

Better  in  the  Mornin'         .........  17 

Tears  of  Joy 20 

The  Good  Old  Farm 23 

The  Corporal  Marks  the  Perfect  Man 25 

The  Old  Corporal's  Mite .         .  27 

Across  the  Chasm     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  29 

The  Corporal  on  Barron  .........  32 

The  Corporal  on  Wood  and  Coal      .......  34 

Caleb  Winn .         .         .         .         .  37 

Corporal  to  the  Parson     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  41 

POLITICAL. 

Hill's  Brigade 43 

Re-form  at  Hamburg          .........  45 

A  Solid  South 47 

After  Election 49 

Sauce  for  the  Gander .'....         .         .  51 

How  they  Cared  for  Jim   .........  53 

Clay  in  the  Hands  of  the  Plotter 56 

Wanted :  a  Captain  .         .         .         .         .         ...         .         .  58 

The  Corporal  Breaks  Silence    ........  60 

Fall  In 62 

The  Parson  to  the  Corporal       .         .         .         .         .         •         •         .  64 

The  Old  Bugle  Call 66 

The  Same  Old  Flag  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .68 

PART    II. 

Simon  Garew    ...........  73 

Tribute  of  Smiles  and  Tears 78 

Solomon  Shirk           .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  80 

Skating  Song    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  ,  .    82 


VI  CONTENTS. 

In  Affliction 83 

Water  Lilies 83 

The  Robin's  Call 84 

Cradle  Song 86 

Wide  Awake     ...........  87 

The  Overland  Eastern 89 

The  Mountain  Rill 90 

A  Picture 91 

The  Soldiers'  Monument           ........  93 

Little  Ben 96 

A  Memory 100 

In  Memoriam   ...........  102 

Cannon 103 

England  in  the  Orient       .........  105 

No  Danger 108 

To  the  Mowers 1 10 

The  Midnight  Bugle 112 

Fight  your  Way  Up 115 

Birch  Island  Trout llfi 

J.  Wilson  Barron      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .117 

Don't  wait  till  they're  Dead 118 

Rest 120 

Stars  for  the  Crown 121 

On  an  Invitation  to  Write 132 

Memorial  Hymn        .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  l.'U 

The  Burning  Village ]:'.."> 

Wings  of  Flame 137 

EARLY    POEMS. 

Reply  of  Night 14<> 

Morning  in  Spring-time     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .142 

Baptism  of  Blood 144 

Our  Country's  Call 14<> 

Carry  Christ  to  the  Home  by  the  Sea       .         .         .         .         .         .147 

Change  the  Figures  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .149 

To  the  Author  of  "  Jim  Bludsoe  " 151 

The  Soldier's  Farewell  (Last  Poem) 152 

PART    III. 

Ahmaidee          ...........  157 

Notes  183 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 


The  author  of  these  songs  and  ballads  was  the  eldest  son  of 
Deacon  Samuel  Coan,  of  Garland,  Maine  ;  -born  in  Exeter, 
Maine,  November  17,  1837,  and  a  direct  descendant  of  Peter 
Coan,  who  came  to  America  from  Worms,  German}',  in  1715. 
His  ancestors,  on  the  maternal  side,  traced  their  lineage  directly 
back  to  the  Pilgrims  that  came  over  in  the  "  Mayflower." 

His  parents,  belonging  to  the  humbler  walks  of  life,  were  by 
no  means  lacking  in  intelligence,  and  the}*  sought  to  give  their 
children  that  which  would  stand  them  in  hand  better  than  the 
wealth  which  they  could  not  bestow, —  an  education  and  an 
honest  name.  His  early  life  was  spent  in  the  common  and  high 
schools  of  the  towns  of  Exeter  and  Garland. 

At  a  very  early  age  he  showed  a  strong  inclination  to  become 
a  preacher,  and  while  yet  very  }*oung  would  return  from  church 
and  preach  the  sermon  he  had  heard  over  again  to  his  parents 
and  relatives ;  going  through  the  whole  sermon  with  great 
solemnit3T,  using  his  own  words,  however,  but  words  very  apt 
and  accurate  to  the  subject. 

Later  on  in  life  he  fell  in  with  associates  who  were  believers 
in  liberal  doctrines,  and  for  a  time  he  was  afloat  upon  the  sea  of 
scepticism  and  doubt.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  while  engaged  in 
teaching  at  Brewer  Village,  Maine,  he  experienced  a  sudden 
radical  change  in  his  views  upon  religion,  and  became  a  working, 


Vlll  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

sterling  Christian.  A  few  months  previous  to  this  change  he 
had  settled  upon  the  law  as  his  profession,  and  went  to  Bangor 
to  study  with  Ex-Governor  Kent ;  but,  finding  himself  deficient 
in  some  of  the  languages,  decided  to  take  private  instructions  in 
them  and  teach  school  for  a  while.  His  conversion,  like  Paul's, 
made  a  complete  revolution  in  his  life,  and  he  soon  determined 
to  preach  the  "  Gospel  of  the  Blessed  Master." 

Finishing  his  theological  studies,  he  was  graduated  from  the 
Theological  Seminary  at  Bangor,  Maine,  in  the  summer  of  1862. 
Supplying  the  Congregational  Church  at  Amherst,  Maine,  until 
the  summer  of  1863,  he  was  ordained  over  that  church  and 
remained  until  the  spring  of  1864,  when  he  spent  his  vacation 
in  Cohasset,  Mass.  In  August,  1864,  his  long  pent-up  patriot 
ism  burst  the  bounds  that  had  confined  him,  and  he  enlisted  as  a 
private  in  the  Sixt}'-first  Massachusetts  Volunteers,  with  tin- 
promise  that,  when  the  battalion  of  six  companies  was  increased 
to  a  full  regiment,  entitling  them  to  a  chaplain,  he  should 
have  that  position.  Meantime  he  acted  as  chaplain  for  his 
battalion,  and  as  the  war  drew  near  its  close,  and  no  more  men 
were  required,  his  regiment  was  never  tilled,  and  consequently  he 
was  not  commissioned  chaplain.  After  the  war  he  preached  at 
Boothbav.  Me.,  three  }"ears,  Brown ville,  Me.,  three  years, 
Bradford.  Me.,  six  months,  Somerset  and  Fall  River,  Mass., 
above  three  years,  and  Alton,  N.H.,  about  five  years.  He 
began  to  write  verses  not  far  from  1860,  and  about  the  first 
piece  was  entitled  "Change  the  Figures."  "The  Reply  of 
Night"  and  "Morning  in  Spring-time"  were  written  not  far 
from  this  time. 

The  last  piece  of  the  "  OJd  Corporal  Series"  was  written  a 
t'e\v  days  before  the  State  election  in  Maine,  which  took  place 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  IX 

Septembers,  1879.  The  piece  was  entitled  "  Fall  In."  I  think,  if 
he  had  been  spared  until  the  present  writing,  January  15,  1880, 
that  the  Old  Corporal's  wooden  leg  would  have  come  down  with 
more  ' '  vicious  vim "  than  when  he  heard  of  Hill's  speech  in 
Congress. 

I  can  do  no  better  than  to  quote  an  obituary  in  the  editorial 
columns  of  the  "  Independent  Statesman,"  published  at  Concord, 
N.H.,  a  short  time  after  his  death.  The  lyric  referred  to  was 
the  "  Soldier's  Farewell,"  and  was  his  last  effort. 

DEATH     OP     REV.    LEANDER     S.    COAN. 

By  a  postal  card,  thoughtfully  forwarded  by  Commander  C.  J.  Richards, 
Past  Commander,  Department  of  New  Hampshire,  Grand  Army  of  the 
Republic,  we  have  received  the  sorrowful  intelligence  of  the  death,  on 
Wednesday  morning,  at  his  residence  in  Alton,  of  Rev.  Leander  S.  Coan, 
better  known  to  our  readers  as  the  author  of  the  Old  Corporal  Ballads, 
most  of  which  were  first  given  to  the  public  in  these  columns.  Although 
he  was  known  to  have  been  for  some  time  in  poor  health,  and  latterly 
quite  ill,  his  friends  at  a  distance  were  totally  unprepared  to  hear  of  his 
demise.  In  the  prime  of  life,  and  apparently  of  a  rugged  constitution, 
being  compactly  built,  with  broad  shoulders,  large*,  well-poised  head  and 
a  ruddy  countenance,  beaming  always  with  good  nature,  he  seemed  des 
tined  to  a  long  life. 

Only  a  few  days  since  —  September  16  —  we  received  a  note  from  him, 
enclosing  the  poem  which  we  published  last  week,  entitled  "  The  Soldier's 
Farewell,"  which  is  so  characteristic  of  the  man  and  the  true  soldier  of 
the  Union  and  of  the  Cross,  that  we  give  it  here  verbatim  :  — 

"  FRIEND  STEVENS  :  Please  find  a  little  lyric  enclosed.  I  would  rather 
have  my  name  at  the  foot  of  the  piece  than  over  it,  so  have  erased  it  there. 

"  Was  sick  in  bed  and  couldn't  get  to  Manchester.  Guess  I  will  die,  but 
will  die  game.  Yours,  PARSON." 

Our  readers  are  aware  that  in  the  series  of  ballads  the  author  referred 
to  himself  as  the  "Parson,"  and  in  many  of  his  private  notes  to  us  he 
used  that  signature.  Mr.  Coan  was  a  man  of  ardent  temperament  and 
strong  feelings,  without  being  in  the  least  fanatical  or  dogmatic.  A  Union 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH. 

soldier  in  the  war  of  the  rebellion,  he  was  proud  of  his  record  as  such  and 
intensely  patriotic.  A  member  of  the  G.A.R.  he  took  a  lively  interest  in 
all  that  pertained  to  the  order,  and  filled  many  posts  of  honor  in  it,  always 
to  the  acceptance  of  his  comrades.  A  clergyman  of  the  Congregational 
denomination,  he  was  also  active  in  all  movements  for  the  advancement 
of  the  cause  of  humanity,  laboring  assiduously  with  voice  and  pen  for  tin- 
promotion  of  temperance,  good  government,  and  morality.  With  poetical 
gifts  of  no  inferior  order,  he  used  them  always  in  furtherance  of  the  good 
of  his  brother-man.  He  wrote,  whether  in  prose  or  rhyme,  out  of  a  full 
heart  and  for  a  worthy  purpose.  Our  columns  have  been  enriched  by  his 
contributions  in  metrical  verse  and  an  occasional  prose  sketch.  He  also 
acted  as  our  news  correspondent,  and  wrote  more  or  less  for  other  jour 
nals,  and  for  magazines.  He  was  a  hard-working  man,  and,  with  a  large 
family  dependent  upon  him,  this  was  a  necessity.  Besides  his  literary 
labors  and  his  work  as  a  pastor,  he  lectured  frequently  before  lyceums 
and  temperance  organizations,  adding  thus  to  his  meagre  pittance  as  a 
pastor  settled  over  a  small  society. 

His  poems  have  had  a  wide  circulation,  many  of  them  having  been 
extensively  copied  by  the  newspaper  press  of  the  country.  Perhaps  the 
most  admired  of  his  metrical  effusions  is  the  plaintive  poem  entitled 
"Better  in  the  Mornin'."  An  earnest  believer  in  Republican  principles, 
and  a  foe  to  oppression  in  every  form,  many  of  his  Old  Corporal  Ballads 
are  directed  against  the  attempts  to  reverse  the  results  of  the  war,  and  are 
stinging  rebukes  to  the  flunky  spirit  which  gained  such  headway  during 
and  subsequent  to  tl)e  late  presidential  campaign.  Of  these  "Hill's 
Brigade  "  is  the  most  spirited.  Some  of  his  battle-pieces  are  dramatic 
and  realistic,  as  would  naturally  be  the  case  with  one  who  has  himself 
participated  in  the  conflict  of  arms.  For  some  time  past  Mr.  Coan  has 
been  engaged  in  collecting  and  revising  his  poems,  with  a  view  to  their 
publication  in  book  form,  and  the  last  time  we  saw  him  he  told  us  of  his 
plans,  which  were  then  nearly  perfected,  for  bringing  out  the  book.  \Ve 
believe  it  is  now  going  through  the  press.  We  hope  so ;  and  trust  that  it 
may  have  a  wide  sale,  not  alone  because  of  its  merits,  and  its  excellent 
inculcations,  but  because  it  will  be  a  godsend  to  his  widow  and  little 
children,  who  are  left  with  only  very  limited  means  of  support. 

Mr.  Coan  had  his  faults  — and  who  has  not?  He  was  somewhat  erratic 
in  his  ideas,  and  too  sensitive,  perhaps,  to  public  praise  or  censure.  But 
he  was  warm-hearted,  true  to  his  convictions,  and  without  cant  or  big 
otry.  As  a  friend  and  comrade  he  will  be  greatly  missed  by  the  boys 
who  wore  the  blue,  for  whom  he  had  an  abiding  affection,  which  grew 
with  the  lapse  of  time. 


BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH.  XI 

He  had  been  out  of  health  for  nearly  a  year,  but  his  physi 
cians  had  not  thought  his  case  a  critical  one  ;  consequently  his 
death  came  with  a  terrible  suddenness  to  his  friends  and  rela 
tives.  His  funeral  occurred  September  27th,  in  the  church  he 
had  labored  in  for  five  years,  conducted  by  the  Masons,  of 
whose  order  he  was  an  enthusiastic  member.  The  ceremony 
was  very  impressive,  especially  that  at  the  grave,  when  the 
whispering  pines  in  the  background  and  the  mellow  autumn 
sunlight  softened  the  senses  and  hallowed  the  spot  forever  to 
some  of  us.  I  wish  to  add  my  tribute  to  his  memorj-  here  on 
these  pages.  I  must  confess  that  I  was  never  so  enthusiastic  in 
regard  to  his  writings  as  he  wished  me  to  be,  and  I  will  only  say 
in  excuse  that  I  never  saw  his  sweetest  songs  until  after  he  had 
been  transferred  to  the  Grand  Army  beyond  the  River.  As  I 
was  perusing  some  of  the  gems  contained  in  this  volume,  I 
chanced  to  take  up  the  Gospel  Hymns  No.  2,  and  read  these 
lines,  — 

"  Strange  we  never  prize  the  music 
Till  the  sweet-voiced  bird  is  flown." 

I  would  have  given  worlds  if  I  had  had  them  at  my  command 
at  that  moment  to  have  had  him  back  with  us  just  for  one  hour. 

E.  S.  COAN,  M.D. 
GARLAND,  January  15,   1880. 


PART   1  . 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  Corporal,  ladies  and  gentlemen. 

Allow  me,  if  you  please, 
To  present  him,  and  vouch  for, 

From  reasons  such  as  these : 
I  have  known  him  as  friend  and  comrade 

Before  and  during  the  war, 
And  since  as  neighbor  and  brother, 

In  all  worth  vouching  for. 

He  never  betrayed  a  secret,  — 

He  never  deserted  a  friend ; 
And  upon  just  what  lie  tells  you 

You  safely  may  depend. 
Stalwart,  staunch,  and  honest, 

To  his  conscience  true  to  the  end, 
In  all  of  life's  relations 

Ennobling  the  name  of  friend. 

Often  uncouth  in  expression, 

Yet  his  meaning  is  terse  and  tense ; 

And  I  have  never  found  him 
Lacking  in  good  sound  sense. 


INTRODUCTION. 

He  stand*  <i*  a  type  of  many 

Whom  you,  perhaps,  have  known  ; 

And  whatever  he  utters,  you  safely 
May  reckon  to  be  his  own. 

In  lodge,  post,  march;  and  bivouac, 

I  have  sat,  and  messed  with  him,  too, 
And  in  all  I  have  ever  found  him 

Loyal,  and  stanch,  and  true; 
And  I  hope,  when  life's  march  is  over, 

To  meet  with  and  greet  him  again, 
When  the  Lord  shall  call  the  honored  roll 

Of  NEW  ENGLAND  common  men. 

And  though  but  two  stripes  on  brue-blous'd 

Give  sign  of  his  rank  below, 
His  heart  deserves  a  General's  star, 

As  we  who  knew  him  know  ; 
And  when  the  hosts  are  gathered 

In  the  Lord  Christ's  grand  review, 
Perhaps  he  then  will  wear  a  star, 

In  those  legions  loyal  too. 


And  I  hr^pe,  in  the  streets  of  the  city 

Said  to  be  paved  with  gold, 
To  hear  (on  the  mellow  pave  ringing, 

As  in,  then  to  be,  days  of  old) 
His  step  and  voice  so  cheerful  ; 

And  this  boon  I  will  beg  : 
That  God  will  there  permit  him  to  wear 

The  badge  of  a  wooden  leg. 

THE  PARSON. 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 


BETTER   IN   THE   MORNIX'. 

"  You  can't  help  the  baby,  parson, 

But  still  I  want  you  to  go 
Down  and  look  in  upon  her, 

An'  read  and  pray,  you  know. 
Only  last  week  she  was  skippin'  round, 

A-pullin'  my  whiskers  an'  hair, 
A-climbin'  up  to  the  table 

Into  her  little  high  chair. 

"  The  first  night  that  she  took  it, 

When  her  little  cheeks  grew  red, 
When  she  kissed  good-night  to  papa, 

And  went  away  to  bed, 
Sez  she,  '  'Tis  headache,  papa, 

Be  better  in  mornin'  —  bye  ' ! 
An'  somthin'  in  how  she  said  it 

Jest  made  me  want  to  cry. 

"  But  the  mornin'  brought  the  fever, 

An'  her  little  hands  grew  hot, 
An'  the  pretty  red  uv  her  little  cheeks 

Grew  into  a  crimson  spot. 
But  she  lay  there  jest  ez  patient 

Ez  ever  a  woman  could, 
Takin'  whatever  we  gave  her 

Better'n  a  grown  woman  would. 


18  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

"  The  days  are  terrible  long  an'  slow, 

An'  she's  grown  wuss  in  each ; 
An'  now  she's  jest  a  slippin' 

Clear  away  out  uv  our  reach. 
Kvcrv  night  when  I  kiss  her, 
Try  in'  hard  not  to  cry, 

She  says  in  a  way  that  kills  me  — 
f  Be  better  in  mornin'  —  bye ' ! 

"She  can't  get  through  the  night,  parson. 

So  I  want  ye  to  come  an'  pray, 
An'  talk  with  mother  a  little,  — 

You'll  know  jest  what  to  say  ; 
Not  that  the  baby  needs  it, 

Xor  that  we  make  any  complaint 
That  God  seems  to  think  he's  needin' 

The  smile  uv  the  little  saint." 

******* 

I  walked  along  with  the  Corporal 

To  the  door  of  his  humble  home, 
To  which  the  silent  messenger 

Before  me  had  also  come ; 
And  if  he  had  been  a  titled  prince 

I  would  not  have  been  honored  more 
Than  I  was  with  his  heart-felt  welcome 

To  his  lowly  cottage  door. 

Night  falls  again  in  the  cottage  : 

They  move  in  silence  and  dread 
Around  the  room  where  the  baby 

Lies  panting  upon  her  bed. 
"  Does  baby  know  papa,  darling  ?  " 

And  she  moves  her  little  face 
With  answer  that  shows  she  knows  him  ; 

But  scarce  a  visible  trace 

Of  her  wonderful  infantile  beauty 
Remains  as  it  was  before 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  19 

The  unseen  silent  messenger 

Had  waited  at  their  door. 
"  Papa  —  kiss  —  baby.     I's  so  tired  !  " 

The  man  bows  low  his  face, 
And  two  swollen  hands  are  lifted 

In  baby's  last  embrace. 

And  into  her  father's  grizzled  beard 

The  little  red  fingers  cling, 
While  her  husky,  whispered  tenderness 

Tears  from  a  rock  would  bring. 
"  Baby  —  is  —  so  —  sick  —  papa  — 

But  —  don't  —  want  —  you  —  to  cry  ;  " 
The  little  hand  falls  on  the  coverlet  — 

Be  —  better  —  in  —  mornin'  —  bye  !  " 

And  night  around  baby  is  falling, 

Settling  down  dark  and  dense  ; 
Does  God  need  their  darling  in  heaven 

That  he  must  carry  her  hence, 
I  prayed  with  tears  in  my  voice, 

As  the  Corporal  solemnly  knelt, 
With  grief  such  as  never  before 

His  great  warm  heart  had  felt. 

O  frivolous  men  and  women  ! 

Do  you  know  that  round  you  and  night, 
Alike  from  the  humble  and  haughty, 

Goeth  up  evermore  the  cry, 
"  My  child  !  my  precious  !  my  darling  ! 

How  can  I  let  you  die  !  " 
Oh,  hear  ye  the  white  lips  whisper  : 

"  Be  —  better  —  in  —  mornin'  —  bye  !  " 
1876. 


20  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


TEARS   OF   JOY. 

"Thank  God,  parson,  with  me  now. 

That  the  baby  is  better  here; 
Better  in  earthly  morning  ; 

That  still  her  voice  we  hear. 
I  thought  when  she  was  a-layin" 

So  quiet,  an'  sick,  an'  still, 
Can  it  be  that  God  wants  this  one? 

Could  I  submit  to  his  will  ? 

"An'  thought  while  I  watched  her  so  careful. 

Through  tryin'  nights  an'  days, 
I  \  the  one  who  in  heaven's  mornin' 

Is  singin'  their  hymns  uv  praise. 
An'  my  heart  was  heavy  an'  fearful. 

My  eyes  were  hot  an'  dry, 
I  couldn't  see  how  I  could  bear  it 

To  have  this  little  one  die. 

"She  had  tilled  up  the  place  that  was  empty, 

At  the  table  an'  in  our  hearts, 
An'  had  grown  around  us  so  closely 

With  her  sweet  little  ways  an'  arts, 
That  it  seemed  ez  if  it  would  kill  me 

To  stan'  by  an'  see  her  die,  — 
To  think  uv  her  hand*  folded 

An'  kissin'  us  all  good-by. 

"Ez  our  sweet  little  pet  you  remember 

So  tenderly  did  before, 
When  the  'unseen  silent  messenger 

Waited  at  our  door.' 
I  think  God  knew  that  we  couldn't 

Hear  it  again,  an'  so 
On  our  dumb  fear  took  pity. 

Concludin'  she  needn't  <ro. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  21 

"  Ez  I  could  only  thank  him 

Ez  it's  in  my  heart  to  do  ;  — 
But  there  !  He  knows  all  about  it, 

Ef  the  good  book  tells  us  true, 
That  there  isn't  a  single  sparrow 

That  flutters  an'  blindly  falls, 
But  He  takes  notice  uv  it ! 

He  must  hear  the  cry  that  calls 

"  For  pity  an'  mercy  in  trouble  ; 

An'  it  must  be  pleasant  for  Him, 
When  he  can  do  what  we  ask  Him, 

So  our  faith  won't  get  too  dim. 
An'  ef  ever  I  get  into  heaven 

The  first  thing  that  I'll  do, 
Will  be  to  thank  Him  that  this  time 

He  brought  the  baby  through, 

"  Without  concludin'  He  needed  her 

With  Him  jest  yet  up  there. 
I  think  he  must  have  noticed 

The  tears  that  wer'  in  my  prayer  ! 
They  weren't  nowhere  else,  that's  certain, 

For  my  eyes  wer'  hot  an'  dry  ; 
But  I  think  he  must  have  noticed 

In  my  heart  a  fearful  cry. 

"  So  I  want  you  to  thank  Him  for  me, 

An'  tell  Him  just  how  I  feel, 
For  I  can't  begin  to  explain  it 

Though  I  try  to  when  I  kneel. 
Why,  just  see  the  sweet  little  precious 

Rumiin'  and  playin'  about, 
A-fillin'  the  house  with  sunshine 

An'  the  joy  uv  the  playful  shout ! 

"  Come  here  an'  kiss  papa,  sweet  one ; 
His  heart  thanks  God  to-day 


•>~2  OLD    CORPORAL   POEAls. 

(Though  you  know  little  about  it ) 
That  the  Lord  could  let  you  stay. 

I  think  ef  God  takes  notice 
In  heaven's  tearless  days 

Uv  the  joy  he  sometimes  gives  us 
He  will  find  that  his  pity  pays. 

"I  can't  see  how  he  helps  cryin' 

When  he  looks  down  'n'  sees 
The  joy  it  gives  to  have  them 
A-patterin'  round  our  knees, 
'When  we  have  been  weepin'  over  them 

In  fear  that  they  might  go, 
When  they  just  seemed  to  be  driftin' 
Away  from  us  sure  an'  slow." 

And  I  have  thought  with  the  Corporal : 

There  is  something  in  the  plan 
That  gives  to  the  throne  in  heaven 

The  heart  of  the  Son  of  Man. 
Yes,  He  who  to-day,  and  yesterday, 

And  forever  is  the  same, 
Weeping  from  joy  at  our  happiness 

Gives  heaven  another  claim 

To  our  love  and  loyal  devotion 

To  One  who  knows  and  feels 
The  heart's  unutterable  anguish 

When  a  trembling  pleader  kneeU. 
And  I  think  that  the  Corporal's  fancy 

Of  God's  sympathetic  tears 
Finds  blessed  confirmation 

In  the  Intercessor's  years. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  23 


THE  GOOD  OLD  FARM. 

"  There's  got  to  be  a  revival 

Uv  good  sound  sense  among  men, 
Before  the  days  uv  prosperity 

Will  dawn  upon  us  again. 
The  boys  must  learn  that  learnin' 

Means  more'n  the  essence  uv  books  ; 
An'  the  girls  must  learn  that  beauty 

Consists  in  more'n  their  looks. 

"  Ef  the  boys  all  grow  up  savants, 

Stndyin'  rocks  'n'  bugs, 
An'  the  girls  grow  up  blue-stockin's 

Or  experts  in  kisses  'n'  hugs,  — 
Who'll  keep  the  old  plow  in  order, 

Or  fix  up  the  traces  '11'  tugs  ; 
Who'll  sweep  the  floor  uv  the  kitchen, 

Or  weave  up  the  carpets  'n'  rugs  ? 

"  Before  we  can  steer  clear  uv  failures, 

An'  big  financial  alarms, 
The  boys  have  got  to  quit  clerkin' 

An'  git  back  onto  the  farms. 
I  know  it  aint  quite  so  nobby, 

It  aint  quite  so  easy,  I  know, 
Ez  parti  n'  yer  hair  'n  the  middle 

An'  settin'  up  for  a  show. 

"But  there's  more  hard  dollars  in  it, 

An'  more  independence,  too, 
An'  more  real  peace  'n'  contentment. 

An'  health  that's  ruddy  an'  true. 
I  know  it  takes  years  uv  labor, 

But  yu've  got  to  f  hang  on  '  iu  a  store 
Before  you  can  earn  a  good  livin' 

An'  clothes,  with  but  little  more. 


•24  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

w  An'  yer  steer  well  clear  uv  temptation 

On  the  good  old  honest  farm, 
An'  a  thousand  ways  V  fashions 

That  only  brings  ye  to  harm. 
There  aint  but  a  few  that  can  handle, 

With  safety,  other  men's  cash, 
An'  the  fate  uv  many  who  try  it 

Proves  human  natur'  is  rash. 

"  So,  when  the  road  to  State's-prison 

Lays  by  the  good  old  farm, 
An'  the  man  sees  a  toilin'  brother 

Well  out  uv  the  way  uv  harm, 
He  mourns  't  he  hadn't  staid  there, 

A-tillin'  the  soil  in  peace, 
Where  he'll  yet  creep  back  in  dishonor 

After  a  tardy  release. 

"  What  hosts  uv  'em  go  back,  broken 

In  health,  V  mind,  V  pur»e, 
To  tfie  in  sight  uv  the  clover, 

Or  linger  along,  which  is  worse  ! 
An'  how  many  mourn  when  useless 

That  they  didn't  see  the  charm, 
The  safety  'n'  independence,  . 

Uv  a  life  on  the  good  old  farm. 

"  So  preach  it  up  to  'em,  parson. 

Jest  lay  it  out  plain  'n'  square, 
That  land  flows  with  milk  'n'  honey, 

That  health  'n'  peace  are  there. 
An'  call  back  the  clerks  'n'  runners 

An'  show  'em  the  peace  'n'  charm. 
That  waits  to  cheer  an'  bless  them, 

On  father's  dear  old  farm." 

The  Corporal's  farm  bears  witness, 
His  cottage  is  snug  and  trim, 


OLD    COKPOKAL.rOE.MS.  25 

The  failures  and  embezzlements 

Have  no  "hard  times  "  for  him. 
Long  may  he  live  to  enjoy  it, 

Free  from  financial  harm, 
A  true  New  England  nobleman, 

Who  thinks,  while  tilling  his  farm. 


THE  OLD   CORPORAL   MARKS  THE  PERFECT 

MAN. 

"He  has  been  to  my  house,  parson, 

A-peddlin'  the  Holy  Hook, 
An'  speakin'  a  word  ag'in  him 

Won't  have  a  kindly  look. 
But  he  says  he  haint  sinned,  parson, 

In  deed,  nor  even  thought, 
For  risin'  eight  year,  nor  had  a  wish 

But  what  a  Christian  ought ! 

"So  I'm  afeard  uv  him,  parson, 

He's  so  awful,  terrible  good ; 
For  he  goes  braggin'  about  it, 

Ez  a  humble  man  never  would. 
I  think  that  bein'  perfect, 

Aint  a  thing  to  be  boastin'  about ; 
It  won't  make  a  man  obtrusive 

For  fear  we  won't  find  it  out. 

"Ef  a  man  is  so  near  the  blessed  light 

Uv  the  everlastin'  sun, 
You  cannot  fail  to  be  convinced 

Uv  the  glorious  work  that's  done. 
An'  he  won't  be  blowin'  about  it, 

Like  the  painter  I  think  uv  now, 


•1(\  OLD  CORPORAL  POE.M-. 

Who  had  to  write,  under  a  doubtful  daub. 
'  This  animal  is  a  cow  ! ' 

"  Ef  he  hadn't  claimed  to  be  perfect, 

I  sartiuly  shouldn't  have  guessed 
That  his  life  would  level  up  higher 

Or  better  than  the  rest. 
So  I'm  jest  a  goin'  ter  mark  him 

(Its  scriptural,  so  I  can), 
For,  don't  the  good  book  tell  us 

To  '  mark  the  perfect  man '  ? 

"He  haint  learned  the  grace  uv  modesty, 

Nor  uv  mindin'  his  own  concerns  ; 
Nor  the  grace  uv  a  charitable  sperrit ; 

Nor  that  spinnin'  tattling  yarns 
Don't  jibe  well  with  his  wonderful  claim 

Uv  not  bavin'  sinned  for  years, 
And  for  these,  an'  other  reasons, 

I  have  for  his  truthfulness,  fears. 

"Ef  he's  perfect,  this  mark  won't  hurt  him  : 

He'll  only  shine  more  bright ; 
An'  the  town  where  he  lives  will  be  noted 

For  havin'  a  shinin'  light. 
An'  agin,  ef  he's  really  perfect, 

Readin'  this  he  won't  be  mad, 
But,  for  an  onerate  sinner, 

"Will  be  only  a  trifle  sad." 

Cut  this  out,  and  if  you  see  him 

In  the  daylight  or  in  the  dark, 
Just  look  him  carefully  over, 

To  find  the  Corporal's  mark. 
Take  this  truth  (in  a  nut-shell), 

On  which  good  sense  relies  : 
The  man  who  claim*  to  be  sinless 

Is  foolish,  or  he  lies. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  27 


THE    OLD    COEPORAL'S   MITE. 

"There's  a  dollar,  parson, 

An'  I  want  to  have  it  go 
For  the  forefather's  monument, 

Which  seems  to  be  risin'  slow. 
The  year  that  I  enlisted 

I  tried  to  get  down  to  the  place, 
To  see  where  they  landed  and  wintered, 

For  I  belong  to  their  race. 

"  But  I  couldn't  get  a  furlough 

To  run  down,  not  for  a  day  ; 
An'  somehow  it  slipped  my  memory 

After  I  marched  away. 
An'  so  many  things  have  happened, 

The  losin'  uv  my  leg, 
An'  stumpin'  around  these  many  years 

On  this  ere  wooden  peg,  — 

"  I  somehow  forgot  they  were  build  in' 

A  monument  down  there, 
So  I  never  yet  have  given 

What  I  may  call  iny  share. 
We  can't  afford  to  forget  them  ! 

It  will  pay  us  well  to  build 
In  memory  uv  the  fathers  who 

Gave  us  the  soil  we've  tilled. 

"An'  they  gave  us  a  sight  more,  parson, 

Ef  our  eyes  were  open  to  see  ! 
They  died  a-foundin'  a  nation, 

Ez  we  fought  to  keep  it  free. 
When  I  think  uv  their  freezin'  in  winter, 

An'  starvin'  when  crops  were  poor, 
An'  tightin'  the  savage  Indians, 

An'  the  fate  that  seemed  so  sure, 


•2*  OLD  CORPORAL  POE.M>. 

"  Standin'  there,  bold  an'  unflinchin', 

Ez  firm  ez  their  Plymouth  Rock, 
Pestilence  thinnin'  the  ninnber 

Uv  the  little  undaunted  flock  ; 
Or  think  uv  their  places  of  worship, 

Uv  the  hardships  they  underwent, 
I  think  we  have  good  reason 

To  thank  them,  an'  be  content. 

"  An'  I  just  feel  ashamed  to  murmur, 

Ez  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  do, 
When  I  think  uv  what  they  suffered, 

An'  what  they  all  went  through. 
Where  would  be  Yale  or  Harvard, 

An'  the  shaft  at  Bunker  Hill, 
Ef  they  had  been  lacking  in  conscience, 

Or  muscle,  or  pluck,  or  will? 

"Ef  they'd  lacked  religi'n  an'  learnin', 

I've  been  askin  myself  uv  late, 
Could  they  have  planned  a  Nation, 

Or  planted  the  seed  uv  a  State  ?    - 
Where  would  be  Boston  'n  Chicago, 

Ef  they  had  failed  to  stand  ? 
An'  where  the  flag  that's  float-in' 

In  peace  over  all  the  land? 

"Each  year  we  give  for  monuments, 

For  far  less  deserving  men  ; 
Fly  bunt  in'  an'  burn  powder 

On  Fourth  of  July,  an'  then 
Complete,  but  only  on  paper, 

A  monumental  j)J<//i. 
For  the  man  who  died  a  foundin' 

A  Race,  on  the  Rights  uv  Man. 

"  An'  I  won't  neglect  it  longer, 
So  here's  the  dollar  for  me  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  29 

I'll  stump  round  'n'  earn  another, 

For  those  who  kept  it  free  ! 
I  can  save  for  such  noble  offerings, 

Ef  I  do  wear  a  wooden  leg  ; 
Ef  all  felt  this  ez  they  ought  to 

The  cause  wouldn't  have  to  beg." 

So  accept  the  old  corporal's  offering, 

For  the  monument  on  the  shore, 
Where  now  as  when  they  landed 

Atlantic  surges  roar. 
And  while  the  sun  shines  or  storm-clouds 

Shall  darken  our  changing  skies, 
May  it  stand  complete  and  sacred 

In  other  Pilgrim  eyes. 

And  loyal  to  conscience  and  duty, 

May  they  tread  the  hallowed  sod, 
Where  rests  the  dust  of  heroes, 

Freemen  and  men  of  God. 
May  we  keep  alive  the  lessons 

Their  lives  and  valor  teach, 
So  long  as  our  race  has  being, 

And  freedom  of  thought  and  speech. 


ACROSS  THE  CHASM. 

"It  reads  like  a  nightmare,  parson, 

The  way  they've  been  dying,  down  South, 
At  Memphis  an'  all  them  places  ! 

I've  been  rather  rough  with  my  mouth, 
Ag'in  some  of  them  sassy  ex-rebels  : 
But  my  heart  has  never  been  cold  : 


."><>  OLD  CORPORAL  POEM-. 

An'  I'm  ready  to  help  'em  in  trouble, 
With  ice,  food,  clothing,  or  gold. 

"It  has  made  my  heart  ache  for  our  brothers 

That  are  dying  a  hunderd  a  day, 
Without  nurses,  or  ice,  or  blankets, 

The  tide  uv  the  scourge  ter  stay, 
My  heart  has  grown  warm  towards  'em, 

An'  I'm  glad  that  we're  able  ter  show 
That  in  times  ov  sich  terrible  trouble 

No  North  or  South  we  know. 

"So,  over  the  bloody  chasm, 

Rent  by  the  Rebel  war, 
We  ve  held  out  our  hands  ter  give  'em 

Things  they  were  dying  for, 
It'll  be  just  ag'in  all  natur' 

Be  that  natur'  white  or  black, 
Ef  a  wave  ov  warm  Southern  gratitude 

Doesn't  come  surgin'  back." 

God  grant  that  this  expression 

Of  the  warmth  of  the  Northern  heart, 
A  wave  of  brotherly  welcome 

From  the  stricken  South  may  start. 
We  will  meet  it,  and  gladly  greet  it 

As  a  sign  of  better  days,  — 
A  breath  of  fate  may  scatter 

The  mists,  the  battle's  haze. 

So,  clasping  hands  and  kindly 

Looking  into  each  other's  eyes, 
May  a  new  fraternity  rising, 

Fill  all  with  glad  surprise. 
The  lessons  of  war  have  taught  us 

The  hand  of  a  foe  to  respect : 
May  the  lessons  of  peace  and  sufferings 

The  love  of  our  hearts  reflect. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Until  all  doubt  and  dissension 

Forever  shall  disappear, 
As  the  arching  dome  of  the  Union  • 

Cemented  with  love  we  rear ; 
And  when  that  dome  is  completed, 

Both  North  and  South  may  it  span, 
Until  humble  and  haughty  acknowledge 

The  brotherhood  of  man. 

Though  they  believed  not,  nor  thought  it ; 

For  this  we  have  stood,  and  have  fought ; 
Then,  with  arms  we  taught  it, 

And  now,  with  our  alms  have  taught, 
God  grant  that  aright  they  read  it, 

In  this  hour  of  stricken  woe  ; 
That  we  and  they  may  heed  it, 

And  the  fruit  of  fraternity  grow. 

Often  uncouth  the  expressions 

I  bring  from  my  soldier  friend, 
The  Corporal,  yet  I  repeat  him, 

And  trust  that  in  the  end, 
His  words  shall  bear  for  justice 

And  equal  rights  for  all, 
Whether  war,  with  its  clarion  summons, 

Or  charity  tenderly  call. 


OLD  CORPORAL  POKMS. 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL  ON  BARRON. 

"Didn't  you  write  up,  parson, 

Mr.  Barron,  your  old-time  friend? 
An'  what  do  you  think  uv  the  '  theory,' 

That  his  own  hand  sought  his  end? 
Is  your  martyr  an'  hero  to  tumble 

From  that  eminence  so  high, 
Where,  at  '  the  Post  of  Duty 

He  was  ready  an'  strong  to  die '  ?  " 

Yes,  comrade,  I  wrote  and  repeat  it ; 

There  is  not  one  word  to  unsay. 
Of  old,  such  ghouls  of  the  Master 

Said,  "  They  came  and  stole  him  away." 
Are  those  wonderful  detectives 

Quickened  by  hope  of  reward  ? 
And  are  those  tardy  doctors 

Standing  in  sweet  accord  ? 

He  must  have  had  genius  like  Dante, 

Or  Dickens,  or  grand  Shakespeare, 
To  plan  out  that  plot  and  details, 

Which  seemed  to  run  so  clear, 
And  hushed  all  thoughts  of  suspicion 

Until  almost  a  year 
Had  wreathed  his  brow  with  a  halo 

That  gleamed  out  grand  and  clear. 

You  may  well  ask  who  are  they, 

And  what  are  their  ultimate  aims? 
Who,  and  what  stands  back  of  this  theory 

Which  a  dead  man's  honor  defames? 
And  what  shall  rise  up  to  hinder 

The  claim  we  next  shall  hear? 
Will  it  be  the  reward  for  finding 

Who  murdered  the  dead  cashier? 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  33 

Like  the  Prince  of  all  patient  martyrs, 

He  stands  while  malice  adorns 
Under  the  radiant  halo 

With  the  still  cruel  crown  of  thorns. 
Thank  God  his  pure  brow  feels  not 

The  touch  of  grave-robbing  hands  ; 
And  now  our  just  indignation 

Before  the  accuser  stands  ; 

To  ask  in  the  name  of  honor 

And  justice,  and  all  things  fair, 
That  they  prove  beyond  a  cavil, 

Clear  as  the  noonday  air, 
Beyond  all  doubt  or  question, 

Or  stand  for  all  time, 
Like  the  Master's  selfish  accusers, 

Damned  by  a  double  crime. 

Who  are  these  ghouls  that  are  digging 

At  the  grave  of  our  dead  cashier? 
Some  motive  unseen  impels  them  ! 

The  real  red  hand  may  be  here  — 
Some  one  will  gain,  if  this  falsehood 

Gain  credence  and  stand  as  true. 
These  men  and  their  motives 

We  propose  to  pierce  through  and  through. 

We  call  them  now  to  answer ; 

They  live,  and  may  defend 
Against  the  charge  that  they  rest  behind 

Some  base  and  selfish  end. 
We  will  not  wait  till  the  silence 

Of  death  has  sealed  their  lips, 
Before  we  cast  on  (heir  honor 

The  doubt  of  a  damning  eclipse. 


34  OLD  CORPORAL  POKM>. 


THE  OLD  CORPORAL  ON  WOOD  AND  COAL. 

"  I  woke  up  the  other  night,  parson, 

A-hearin'  the  cold  wind  blow, 
A-howlin'  around  my  dwellin' 

Drivin'  the  driftin'  snow, 
An'  I  thought  of  the  poor  folks,  parson, 

Who  haint  got  so  much  ez  we ; 
Who  haint  got  no  work  nor  money  ;  — 

Got  to  thinkin'  how  'twould  be 

Ef  I  hadn't  clothin'  sufficient, 

Ef  I  hadn't  wood  nor  coal, 
Nor  a  bed  that  wuz  warm  and  decent, 

Nor  a  shoe  that  wuz  dry  an'  whole  ;  — 
'N'  I  shuddered  with  only  the  thinkin', 

Tucked  up  nice  an'  warm  ; 
Thinkin'  about  the  people 

A-sufferin'  in  the  storm. 

"'N'  I  thought  uv  'em  sick  an'  hungry, 

Thought  uv  'em  dyin'  an'  dead  ; 
An'  thinkin'  uv  New  Years  an'  Christmas, 

An'  what  the  good  Lord  said 
About  bein'  alwus  with  us  ;  — 

Though  the  meauin'  uv  that  is  dim 
The  other  is  plain  an'  simple, 

'Bout  doin'  it  unto  him. 

"  An'  I  just  laid  awake,  thinkin', 

A'most  the  livelong  night, 
Turnin'  it  over  and  over, 

An'  tryin'  to  get  it  right. 
But  I  couldn't  fix  it  nohow, 

To  make  it  foot  up  square  — 
The  way  that  things  is  divided 

Seems  anything  but  fair. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  35 

"  Why,  there's  that  old  man  Stingy, 

Who  never  did  anything  good, 
Who  never  did  anything  honest,  — 

I  don't  think  he  ever  would,  — 
Surrounded  with  wealth  an'  comfort, 

A  sight  too  ugly  to  die, 
So  fat  an'  sleek  an '  happy  !  — 

Can't  see  the  reason  why. 

"But  the  widder  Joneses  children, 

So  modest  an'  good  an'  kind ; 
An'  she  is  proper  an'  upright 

Ez  any  that  you  can  find  : 
An'  her  husband  was  upright  an'  honest, 

Nor  was  he  afeared  to  die  ;  — 
Seein'  them  cold  an'  hungry,  — 

I  can't  see  the  reason  why, 

"  Except  that  they're  alwus  with  us 

To  give  us  a  chance  to  give, 
While  showin'  the  terrible  trouble 

Through  which  some  folks  can  live  ; 
Showin'  how  patient  an'  thankful 

All  uv  us  ought  to  be, 
To  make  us  kind  to  the  people 

Who  haint  got  so  much  ez  we. 

"  There's  poor  little  Tim  McPeters 

A-coughin'  his  life  away, 
Who  ought  to  be  out  a-slidin'  — 

Jest  the  right  age  to  play ; 
Sick,  yet  patient  an'  thankful, 

Without  any  grapes  or  beef, 
A-hoverin'  over  a  broken  stove 

With  no  hope  —  no  relief. 

"  We  can  give  'em  some  wood  to  warm  'em, 
We  can  give  'em  a  loaf  uv  bread, 


36  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

An'  pull  over  the  stuff  in  the  attic 

To  find  a  quilt  for  the  bed. 
'Tvvould  be  a  shame  an'  a  pity 

To  see  the  poor  boy  dead, 
Without  any  wood  for  a  fire, 

An'  not  enough  on  the  bed. 

"Can't  you  think  uv  somethin',  parson, 

Can't  you  think  uv  somethin'  to  do, 
To  stir  up  the  wealthy  people 

To  help  the  poor  folks  through  ? 
There's  many  uv  'em  sick  an'  needy 

Without  any  fault  uv  theirs. 
Can't  you  kind  uv  hint  to  the  rich  folk 

That  wood  '11  warm  up  their  prayers? 

"  That  when  they  set  down  by  the  bedside 

An' take  a  sick  child's  hand, 
An'  leave  a  smile  fur  cumfort, 

Along  uv  the  jell  on  the  stand, 
An'  hear  the  child's  '  God  bless  ye  ! ' 

A-wipin'  away  the  tears, 
They're  layirf  up  treasures  an'  riches 

Fur  the  best  uv  heaven's  years  ! " 

The  Corporal  paused,  could  say  no  more, 

His  heart  was  all  too  full ; 
It  seemed  as  though  it  would  burst  and  break 

Beneath  his  jacket  of  wool. 
So  here's  my  hand,  old  comrade, 

My  heart  and  my  pen  to-day, 
To  speak  your  generous  counsel 

For  the  Lord  Christ's  Christmas  day. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  37 


CALEB   WINN. 

One  day,  as  I  sat  in  my  study, 

I  heard  on  the  gravelled  walk 
A  step  which  to  me  was  familiar, 

But  I  missed  the  familiar  talk,  — 
The  Corporal's  Yankee  lingo, — 

So  I  knew  that  something  was  wrong, 
For  the  old  fellow's  cheery  accents 

Were  never  silent  long. 

"I  want  ye  to  come  with  me,  parson, 

Down  to  see  comrade  Winn  ; 
He  was  with  me  in  my  regiment, 

An'  the  best  uv  neighbors  has  been. 
He  is  sick  an'  in  great  trouble, 

An'  wants  to  talk  with  you  ; 
You'll  find  whatever  he  tells  ye, 

Like  the  gospel,  straight  an'  true. 

"  He  haint  told  me  about  it, 

So  I  think  it's  somethin'  sad ; 
He  has  taken  his  bed,  an'  wild-like, 

Takin'  on  terrible  bad  ; 
His  old  wooden  leg  is  hangin' 

Agin  the  bedroom  wall ; 
For  you  he  keeps  enquirin', 

But  don't  want  others  to  call. 

"  Here  we  are  at  his  cottage  : 

Don't  knock,  but  go  right  in ; 
I'll  wait  here  in  the  kitchen, 

Where  I  have  often  been  ; 
I  hope  you  can  help  him  somehow, 

I  reckon  it's  caused  by  grief, 
For  he  says  that  the  doctors 

Can't  give  him  any  relief. 


.'>*  OLD    CORPORAL   POEM-. 

"  I'm  reported  in  hospital,  chaplain. 

And  my  time  here  is  short. 
But  I'm  not  goin'  to  whinin', — 

You  know  I  aint  that  soit  : 
Ever  sence  that  day  in  tin-  Wilderness 

I've  been  prest  here,  the  heart : 
Sence  I  lost  my  leg  by  a  ininnie. 

Couldn't  stan'  no  great  start. 

"  And  now  I've  had  one,  chaplain, 

I'm  sure  I'm  almost  done  ; 
This  shot's  goin'  ter  drop  me, 

I've  got  ter  turn  in  my  gun. 
When  I  knew  that  I  was  goin', 

That  my  march  was  almost  through, 
I  thought  that  I  might  die  easier 

Ef  I  could  tell  it  ter  you. 

"No.  no  —  'taint  that,  chaplain, 

I  tixt  that  long  ago. 
An'  now,  ef  the  Captain's  ready. 

Then  I'm  all  ready  ter  go. 
I  know  that  I'm  fur  from  perfect. 

But  I've  been  a-tryin"  for  years; 
And  'bout  that  comin'  roll-call 

I  haint  got  any  fears. 

"It's  about  my  daughter  Mary. 

Who  cried  so  when  I  went  : 
Who  grew  so  tall  'n'  han'some, 

So  patient  'n'  content : 
How  good  a  girl  she'-  alwus  been, 

How  fair  she's  grown  to  be  ; 
How  kind  she's  been,  and  faithful, 

An'  sot  the  world  by  me  ! 

"O  God  !  I  can't  tell  it  to  ye  ! 
It  came  I  don't  know  how, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEM-. 

But  it's  here,  the  wust  of  trouble, 

With  no  help  for  it  now. 
But  he  came  so  proper  an'  pleasin*. 

He  seemed  to  love  her  too  : 
I'd  ez  soon  have  thought  uv  watchin" 

Or  gone  ter  mistrastin"  you. 

But  the  wust  uv  it  is  he's  left  her. 

And  she's  gone  well-nigh  mad  ; 
It  breaks  my  heart  to  see  her : 

You  know  the  smile  she  had.  — 
She  sits  now  with  a  kind  uv  stare. 

That's  jest  heart-breakm  ter  see  ; 
She  don't  know't  I'm  dvin". 

N    .  -ir.  she  don't  know  me  ! 

You  needn't  tell  me  'bout  law  for  it! 

A  hell,  or  a  God.  or  not, 
Ef  there's  any  sich  thing  ez  jestiee. 

The  villain  ought  ter  be  shot ! 
Ez  I  hope  fur  heaven.  I'd  do  it. 

An'  think  I  wuz  doin"  well : 
An"  ef  (rod  knows  a  father's  feelin's 

Be  rannin"  small  resk  uv  hell. 

'  Some  folks  sez  that  ther"  aint  none  ! 

But  what's  ter  be  done  with  sich  ? 
Where  else  can  ther"  be  jestiee 

For  one  like  him.  that's  rich? 
Ef  ther  aint  none,  then  ther"  should  be, 

I  guess  that  there'll  be  enough : 
An"  tiir  sich  fair-seemin"  scoundrels. 

God  can't  make  it  too  rough. 

'  Don't  set  there  mutterin"  "  laic  for  it " ! 

What  chance  can  ther'  be  in  law? 
Can  ye  show  me  a  case  uv  jestiee 
In  that  way't  ever  ye  s 


40  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

What  chance  ter  bring  back  honor, 

Or  innocence  back  again, 
Or  wipe  from  an  honest  family 

The  least  uv  an  awful  stain  ? 

"  Why,  he  goes  abroad  respected, 

While  she's  ez  good  ez  dead ; 
An'  byme-by  he'll  be  back  ag'in, 

A-holdin'  up  his  head. 
But  ef  I  could  live  ter  see  him  here,  — 

A  Jedgment  Day,  or  not,  — 
Ef  his  gravestone  told  the  truth  on  it, 

'Twould  say,  '  The  Villain  was  shot.' 

"  Been — weeks — has  it — chaplain  ? 

Ye — see — I'm — goin'  fast, 
I  want — you — to  stay  here — with  me  ; 

It's  comin' — discharge — at  last. 
I  hope — that — Christ — will— remember, 

When — he — makes  up  the  books, 
The — blood — I  shed — in  battle, 

He — knows — how  your  own  blood  looks. 

"  Is — it  night — now — or  evenin'  ?  "  — 

"No,  comrade,  the  sun  shines  clear."  — 
"  Then — that — roll-call — is — comin' , 

P'raps — you-:— can  hear  it — here, — 
Drexs  by  the  colors  I"     He  wanders. 

"  Could — I  have — a  flag — for  a  pall  ? 
It  seems — I  can — see — one — floating 
From  a  flag-staff — grand  and  tall. 

"  It  seems — to  float — clear  to  heaven, 
Hark  ! — can  I — hear — a  bell  ? 

Yes — it's — still — a-ringin' — 
You — cannot — hear  it? — Well, 

Good-by — take — care — uv — Mary — " 
And  when  he  heard  the  roll, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  41 


I  trust  that  Christ  had  mercy 
On  the  rough  old  soldier's  soul. 

And  there  on  the  wall  of  his  bedroom, 

Hung  up  by  its  straps  to  a  peg, 
Just  where  he  last  had  left  it, 

Was  his  well-worn  wooden  leg. 
We  buried  it  carefully  with  him, 

Strapped  on  as  it  was  before, 
With  the  flag,  as  he  requested, 

For  none  deserved  it  more. 

And  while  I  live  and  remember, 

I  never  can  forget 
His  chivalric  honor  and  "  jestice," 

Nor  how  his  cheeks  were  wet 
At  the  thought  of  the  flag  and  Mary, 

Nor  the  treason  he  fought  so  well, 
Nor  the  treason  to  woman's  trust  and  love, 

By  which  at  last  he  fell. 


o>*ic 


THE  CORPORAL  TO  THE  PARSON. 

[Written  by  the  author  a  few  months  before  his  decease.] 

"  Come,  open  yer  heart  to  me,  parson, 

What  makes  yer  face  so  sad  ? 
You've  always  been  kind  in  my  troubles, 

All  that  I've  ever  had. 
An'  now  ef  the  thing  is  reversed  like, 

An'  yer  need  ,1  helpin'  hand, 
I'm  one  that'll  be  found  loyal, 

Close  by  your  side  to  stand." 


4'2  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

This  is  all  that  it  is,  corporal : 

My  strength  has  been  ebbing  away  ; 
My  hope  and  my  courage  have  fallen, 

As  life's  power  slipped  away ; 
And  right  in  the  midst  of  toiling, 

Right  under  a  noon-day  sun, 
I  feel  that  the  day  is  ended, 

That  my  work  and  struggles  are  done. 

I've  got  to  lie  down  in  the  harness,  — 

To  give  up  and  cease  to  vie 
With  athletic  or  any  striver  — 

Resigned  and  willing  to  die. 
But  while  your  words  are  powerless 

To  lift  the  load  I  bare, 
I  could  bless  you  to  God  forever, 

With  kindest  wish  and  prayer, 

For  seeing  under  cheeks  that  are  paling, 

What  baffles  the  healer's  art,  — 
That  something  was  wearing  slowly  away 

The  strength  of  one  beating  heart. 
And  I  will  bless,  and  bless  you  ever 

For  the  kind  words  you  have  said, 
For  speaking  the  words  sympathetic 

I  would  yearn  for,  even  though  dead. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  43 


POLITICAL 


HILL'S   BRIGADE. 

"  Comrade,  I've  been  mad  to-day, 

Nigh  mad  enough  to  swear, 
Thinkin'  about  the  war'n'  the  South, 

An'  all  we  suffered  there. 
Those  four  long  years,  the  dead  we  left, 

An'  those  who  come  home  to  die, 
Uv  what  we  fought  an'  hoped  for  — 

Mad  with  good  reason  why  ! 

"I  can't  forgit  they  wer'  rebels,  — 

That  this  was  their  General  Hill ! 
We  have  heard  their  yells  afore  ; 

It  seems  I  can  hear  them  still. 
To  think  uv  that  yell  in  Congress  ! 

Wai,  let  us  'move  back  the  hands  ! 
He  boastin'  uv  'father's'  house,  while 

No  thanks  to  him  it  stands  ! 

"  Yes,  lifted  his  hand  ag'in'  it, 

An'  sot  it  well  on  iire  ! 
An'  knocked  out  the  underpinin', 

Or,  at  least,  'twas  his  desire  ; 
An'  when  '  father  '  caught  and  cuffed  him, 

Lettin'  him  up  with  half  enough,  — 
To  come  back  so  crank  and  sassy 

Is  a-usin'  the  old  man  rough. 


44  OLD   CORPORAL    POE.M>. 

"  Then  there's  that '  Wilkes  Booth  Hambleton ' ! 

Doughfaces  a-crawlin'  back 
To  obey  their  old-time  masters, 

An'  hear  the  slave-whip  crack  ! 
Centennial !     Wai,  I'm  for  it ; 

An'  peace,  an'  good-will,  an'  such  ; 
But  it  seems  they're  askin'  uv  us 

Just  a  leetle  too  much. 

"  Ther's  Gettysburg  an'  Antietam, 

The  horrid  Wilderness,  too  ; 
Fort  Pillow,  Macon,  an'  Andersonville, 

With  Wirtz  an'  his  wicked  crew. 
An'  we've  got  to  knuckle  at  last,  — 

To  swaller  our  shame  an'  chagrin  ; 
To  confess  wre  were  wrong,  an'  are  sorry ; 

That  loyalty  was  a  sin  ! 

"  Ef  comin'  back  they'd  been  decent, 

Hadn't  sneered  over  Lincoln's  grave, 
Had  left  off  braggin'  uv  treason 

An'  the  cause  they  couldn't  save, 
I'd  'ave  swallered  all  resentment 

In  spite  uv  this  wooden  leg ; 
An'  ez  fer  goin'  ag'in  'em 

I  wouldn't  have  moved  a  peg. 

"  I  was  ready  to  bury  the  hatchet, 

To  forgive  an'  try  to  forget ; 
But  beggin  Jeff  Davis's  pardon 

Is  ruther  the  wust  thing  yet ! 
The  centennial  plan  of  '  oblivion  ' 

Was  good,  so  fur  ez  it  went,  — 
To  bottle  well  up  our  anger, 

But  to  give  to  their  venom  vent ! " 

The  Corporal's  Northern  blood  was  up, 
As  he  muttered,  and  hobbled  away, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  45 

From  the  look  and  tone  he  carried, 

I  reckon  it  wasn't  to  pray. 
At  every  step  his  wooden  stump 

Came  down  with  a  vicious  vim  ; 
And  it  is  my  calm  opinion 

They  get  no  help  from  him. 

He  sees  an  insolent  menace 

In  the  venom  of  Hill's  tirade, 
The  germ  of  another  secession, 

The  stuft'  of  which  rebels  are  made. 
But  you  can  depend  upon  it, 

Whether  with  ballot  or  blade, 
Enough,  upon  call,  will  rally 

To  wipe  out  Hill's  Brigade. 

MARCH,  1876. 


RE-FORM   AT  HAMBURG. 

"  Re-form  —  without  masks  —  at  Hamburg  ! 

On  a  white  line  campaign  plan  ! 
An'  '  Sun-set '  in  Congress  excuses 

Ez  quick  ez  ever  he  can  ; 
Jest  like  my  dog  Bose  ther', 

Who  runs  afore  I  say  sic  ! 
Good  fellow  I  Northern  doughface, 

The  blood  from  their  hands  to  lick. 

"An'  that  rebel  rag  in  Missouri, 

Floatin'  over  a  court-house  ther' ! 
With  judge j  'n'  lawyers,  'n'  jury, 
A  yellin'  Re-form  in  the  air ! 


46  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Re-form!  yes,  the  old  line  is  re-formin 

Wherever  they  safely  can, 
To  shoot  down  the  colored  voters,  — 

Centennial  campaign  plan ! 

"Then  ther's  that  rag-baby  to  swoller, 

An'  lock-step  with  Morrissey  John, 
An'  along  with  old  Tammany  holler 

Hooray  for  Reform  !  and  move  on 
The  enemy's  works,  — which  is  niggers,  — 

And  down  with  their  friends  to  a  man, 
Is  what  seems,  at  present,  the  secret 

Confident  campaign  plan  1 

w  Their  blood  was  ez  red  ez  Custer's, 

An'  they're  dead  sure  in  the  right  — 
Shot  down  after  surrender, 

Not  in  a  stand-up  fight, 
By  them  as  had  no  right  to  do  it, 

Hadn't  no  shadder  of  excuse 
To  ask  their  arms,  or  receive  'em ! 

Why,  it's  wus'n  the  bloody  Sioux! 

"  Is  this  their  Southern  chiv'lry  ? 

Is  this  their  kind  uv  reform  ? 
It's  ruther  their  criminal  deviltry, 

Too  fur  gone  to  reform  ! 
It's  the  same  old  slave-drivin'  devil 

We  thought  we  had  cast  out  an'  killed, 
When  they  gave  the  white  flag  to  Custer, 

'N'  we  thought  enuff  blood  was  spilled. 

"  When  he  took  that  flag  at  Farmville, 
An'  they  piled  their  rusty  guns, 

We  called  it  Southern  manhood, 
Proud  uv  our  nation's  sons  ! 

But  ef  this  is  Southern  manhood, 
Their  boasted  chivalry,  too, 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Ef  this  is  valor  and  honor,  — 
Wai,  —  then  the  war  aint  thru!  " 

The  Corporal  turned  to  his  mowing 

In  the  sweltering  July  sun,  — 
A  broad  clean  swarth  he  was  mowing, 

In  the  meadow  along  the  run  ; 
,  And  at  every  swing  of  his  long,  keen  blade 

His  lips  were  more  firmly  set ; 
With  a  muttered  curse  on  the  Hamburg  raid, 

"  They're  all  blanked  rebels  yet !  " 

And  when  there  is  call  for  soldiers, 

In  the  coming  November  storm, 
He  will  be  sure  to  rally, 

The  true  blue  line  to  re-form,  — 
And  his  old  wooden  leg  go  stumping, 

I  reckon  the  very  first  one, 
To  vote  on  this  Hamburg  matter, 

As  he  voted  before  with  his  gun. 


JULY  17,  1876. 


A    SOLID    SOUTH. 

"  So  the  South  is  goin'  in  solid  I 

Who  can  say  when  it  wa'n't  ? 
What  it  meant  before  to  be  solid, 

Some  uv  us  haint  forgot. 
They  were  solid  for  Jeff  and  secession, 

An'  solid  ag'in  the  flag ; 
An'  solid  in  fightin'  an'  yellin' 

For  that  Southern  bastard  rag. 


48  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

ff  But  ef  I  remember  correctly, 

There  was  somethin'  else  solid  then, 
Which  seems,  ez  now  I  think  uv  it, 

Like  a  line  uv  blue-bloused  men. 
An'  our  batteries  blazed  an'  thundered 

Only  one  answer  forth  ; 
While  the  old  flair  floated  to  emblem 

The  will  uv  a  solid  North. 

"  An'  ef  they  are  comin  'together, 

Solid  an'  savage  ag'in, 
It's  only  because  they're  hopin' 

State  rights  an'  Secession  will  win  ! 
Solid?     Aint  rogues  alwus  solid, 

When  the  sheriff'  is  on  their  track 
To  arrest  an'  bring  'em  to  justice, 

An'  bring  the  plunder  back '; 

"  An'  ez  good  men  go  in  together 

To  hunt  out  a  thicviif  pack 
With  no  lack  uv  motives  to  move  'em, , 

No  longer  slow  nor  slack, 
You'll  tind  the  Solid  South  boastin', 

Brings  only  one  answer  forth  — 
They'll  meet,  as  they  met  before, 

The  ranks  of  a  Solid  North." 

With  whatever  lack  of  honor 

Political  leaders  stand, 
Or  lack  of  unselfish  devotion 

To  justice  and  native  land, 
The  Corporal's  honor  fails  not ; 

His  heart  is  untarnished  and  pure ; 
In  his  face  glows  the  solemn  purpose, 

That  the  Union  shall  endure. 

God  bless  the  old  Corporal's  valor, 
His  keen  and  unerring  scent, 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS.  49 

That  this  Solid  South  boast  and  business 

Means  what  it  always  meant ; 
And  grant  to  thwart  and  defeat  them. 

To  trouble  and  prosper  them  not, 
That  the  roused  Solid  North  give  answer, 

Like  the  plunge  of  a  solid  shot. 
OCT.,  1876. 


AFTER  ELECTION, 

"A\rell,  I  reckon  God  isn't  cornered, 

Nor  his  light  gettin'  dim, 
That  we've  got  to  cheat  in  the  corner, 

To  carry  a  point  for  him  ! 
Yes,  God,  with  one  hundred  eighty, 

Is  a  surer  way  to  thrive 
Than  to  stain  even  one  uv  the  figures 

That  make  up  eighty-five. 

"  It's  a  time  uv  danger,  parson, 

For  our  good  old  ship  of  state, 
An'  the  best  thing  I  can  think  uv 

Is  jist  to  quietly  wait. 
Ef  we  musty  why,  yield  the  advantage, 

Gained  by  those  bulldozin'  frauds ; 
An'  then,  in  the  next  election, 

lloll  up  the  honest  odds. 

"An'  I  shall  be  loyal,  parson, 

Whichever  way  it  goes  ; 
I'm  not  the  stuff  for  a  rebel, 

Though  it's  rather  a  tough  old  dose ; 
But  ice  can't  allow  them  canvassers 

To  stretch  a  point  for  us  ; 


50  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Ef  they  do,  the  next  election 
Will  be  goin'  ag'in  us.  \vus. 

"To  win  i>  nhvus  welcome, 

But  it's  better  t'iir  to  be  right; 
Especially  ef  it  h;i])})ens 

That  we  should  have  to  tight ;  — 
To  tight  a  fraud  is  fur  better 

For  the  stoiuarh  uv  a  man 
Than  to  go  to  tightin'ybr  'one, — 

I  doubt  ef  a  good  man  can. 


e» 


"  The  old  ship  seems  to  be  driftin' 

Right  onto  a  ragged  rock ; 
An'  I  sometimes  ruther  question 

Ef  she  can  stand  the  shock. 
But  we'll  man  her  like  men,  and  stand  ready. 

Honest  an'  square  at  our  post ; 
An'  hope  that  the  silent  Captain 

Will  tind  a  pass  in  the  coast, 

"An'  steer  the  old  ship  through  it, 

Escapin'  the  rocky  bar  ; 
I  reckon  he  haint  lost  the  bearin* 

Uv  Truth  fur  a  steerin'  star. 
It's  better  to  build  on  jestice  ; 

It  won't  do  to  wink  at  n-i-ona  ; 
Ef  (iod  has  an  eye  to  this  business, 

That  can't  triumph  long. 

"I've  got  more  faith  in  the  people  — 

The  real  people,  North  and  South  — 
Than  I  have  in  the  brag  and  bluster 

I'v  the  hottest  tire-eat  in'  mouth. 
An'  Fate,  with  (iod,  will  see  to  it, 

Will  smite  every  infamous  fraud, 
Till,  sooner  or  later,  they'll  learn  it, — 

They  <-n,i't  xtrnl  a  march  on.  (1»<I. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  51 

"So,  I  reckon  God  isn't  cornered, 

Nor  his  light  gettin'  dim, 
That  we've  got  to  cheat  in  the  shadow, 

To  make  a  point  for  him. 
Whoever  goes  out  in  countin', 

Be  sure  that  you  count  God  in, 
For  it's  sure  defeat  without  him, 

Though  fur  a  time  you  win." 

The  Corporal  touches  his  old  cloth  cap 

With  the  soldier's  firm  salute, 
And  stumps  with  his  wooden  leg,  sturdily, 

Along  his  daily  route. 
And  in  the  old  fellow's  rough  horse  sense 

There  shines  a  gleam  of  light 


That  makes  success  fade  out  and  pale 
Before 

Nov.  27,  1876. 


Before  the  Immortal  —  liight. 


SAUCE  FOR  THE  GANDER. 

"Hold  up,  parson,  I  tell  ye 

It  aint  no  sort  uv  use 
To  slap  and  bang  about  Conover! 

This  well-baked  Policy  goose 
Must  be  carved  and  served,  I  reckon. 

Let  Thurman  cut  an'  slash  ; 
Let  Conover  vote  for  Hamburg,  — 

He's  legitimate  Policy  Hash. 

"  If  the  noble  Hampton's  governor  now, 

It  seems  to  my  limited  view 
That  a  legal  Legislature 
Makes  a  legal  Senator,  too. 


52  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

There's  no  sort  uv  use  in  kickin' 
Ag'in  them  political  pricks  ; 

They're  fools,  ef  with  all  their  schoolin' 
They  haven't  learned  the  tricks. 

"It's  no  time  now  to  cry  baby, 

To  mourn  they've  lost  the  game  ; 
You  can't  depend  on  the  swiiuin' 

Of  the  duck  who  wades  in  lame. 
The  gong  for  the  feast  has  sounded, 

An'  it  aint  no  sort  uv  use 
To  refuse  the  roast  we  furnished  'em,  — 

They've  cooked  and  '11  carve  that  goose. 

"  Then  they'll  jest  pay  for  it  in  silver, 

That's  legal  (an'  tender  too), 
And  ef  Jonathan  should  refuse  it, 

Then,  pray,  what  can  he  do? 
For  he'll  lose  his  goose,  an'  his  Senate 

(Ef  the  Whigs  don't  rise  to  view)  ; 
Ef  he  will  not  take  their  silver, 

Then,  pray,  what  can  he  do? 

"Fur  Banning  '11  make  a  gesture, 

An'  Bland  will  be  child-like  an'  blue, 
"While  Ewing  will  soak  his  little  sponge 

In  the  Ohio  (Kentucky,  too), 
To  wipe  out  our  Butler's  bloated  bonds 

While  he  watches  his  pile  uv  bricks  ; 
And  Sehurz  endangers  his  elegant  limbs 

A-kickin'  political  pricks  !  " 

Mr.  President,  Senators,  Gentlemen  ! 

There  are  men,  and  not  a  few, 
Who  in  ways  and  walks  that  are  humble, 

Keep  the  Capitol  well  in  view. 
Their  judgment  is  not  hasty, 

Their  aims  and  their  hearts  are  large  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  53 

And  they  will  call  you  to  strict  account 
For  the  trust  you  took  in  charge. 

The  past  they  have  not  forgotten, 

Nor  the  future  lost  from  view  : 
Though  Senates  and  Presidents  pass  away, 

The  people  will  yet  stand  true. 
They  will  render  work  that  is  foolish, 

And  only  the  Right  shall  stand, 
For  they  will  smite,  stamp  out,  and  slay 

Each  trading  political  band. 


HOW  THEY  CARED  FOR  JIM. 

"It  aint  very  often,  parson, 

That  I  am  tempted  to  swe;ir, 
But  there's  some  things  so  mean  'n'  ungrateful, 

So  niggardly  base  'n'  unfair, 
That  there  aint  no  way  uv  expressin' 

The  rage  that  is  soaked  in  chagrin 
In  language  that's  right  'n'  proper,  — 

That's  when.  I'm  tempted  to  sin. 

"  They've  sent  poor  Jim  to  the  almshouse  ! 

The  squire  an'  the  selick  men 
(Who  grew  rich  ez  substitute  brokers) 

Got  tired  uv  givin',  an'  then 
They  histed  him  off  ez  a  pauper. 

They're  done  wastin'  money  on  him, 
For  all  that  the}'  promised  his  father 

That  they  would  look  out  for  Jim. 

"  Jim's  father,  at  Cedar  Mountain, 
Was  among  the  first  to  fall, 


54  OLD   CORPORAL   POE.AI>. 

An'  when  he  lay  a-dyin' 

All  torn  by  a  cannon-ball ; 
When  strength  an'  breath  was  failin' 

An'  his  eyes  a-growin'  dim, 
He  said,  'Tell  the  squire  an'  selick  men 

To  take  good  care  uv  Jim.' 

"  They  had  all  nv  his  pay  an'  bounty, 

A-keepin'  it  snug  an'  trim, 
In  case  he  was  killed  or  disabled, 

To  feed  an'  care  for  Jim. 
You  know  how  they  boosted  an'  farmed  him  out 

To  pay  for  his  board  in  chores, 
Never  once  gettin'  to  decent  feed 

Nor  darkenin'  decent  doors. 

"  An'  the  new  selick  men  have  forgotten 

That  ever  there  was  a  war  — 
An'  the  men  who  died  so  long  ago  — 

An'  what  they  all  died  for ; 
So,  eager  for  pacification, 

A-hidin'  the  bloody  past, 
They've  shipped  Jim  off  to  the  poor-house, 

An'  they're  at  peace  at  last. 

"  Well,  I  guess  we  aint  a  Nation  — 

At  least  worth  dyin'  for  ! 
Could  I  safely  float  the  stars  an'  stripes 

Where  I  followed  them  in  the  war? 
They  ought  to  protect  a  citizen 

In  Hamburg  or  Mobile 
Without  his  havin'  a  single  fear 

Of  treacherous  lead  an'  steel. 

"  But  no  —  the  Government  has  no  power 

Till  some  great  Hampton  calls, 
To  protect  the  life  uv  its  citizens 
From  murderous  rifle-balls. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  55 

What  wonder  when  this  doctrine 

Is  heard  from  executive  halls, 
That  the  cripple  child  uv  a  soldier 

Away  to  the  poor-house  crawls  ? 

"  We  fought  for  the  Union  an'  saved  it  — 

We  saved  it  ez  we  ought ; 
We  fought  for  the  ballot  an'  lost  it, 

An'  lost  just  where  we  fought, 
Unless  we  vote  ez  the  Southern  grays 

A-swaggerin'  swear  we  ought. 
No  !  that  aint  the  Union 

That  lived  in  our  loyal  thought." 

You  may  doff  your  hats  to  Treason, 

The  Corporal's  conscience  yet 
Is  too  keen  and  sharply  consistent 

To  allow  him  to  forget ; 
And  thousands  of  us  are  with  him, 

And  glad  I  surely  am 
Not  to  look  yet  upon  loyalty 

As  a  sentimental  sham. 

The  right  to-day  is  as  sacred 

As  when,  under  Southern  Stars, 
We  gathered  in  line  against  the  lie 

Of  rebel  Stars  and  Bars. 
If  right  looms  up  to-day  in  the  haze 

It  is  clear  we  were  all  wrong  then, 
And  if  so  there  is  not  a  Corporal's  guard 

Who  would  fight  for  the  Union  again. 

And  when  the  old  question  confronts  us, 

As  meet  us  again  it  will, 
With  what  heart  could  loyal  legions 

Follow  the  old  cause  still? 
If  they  fall,  why  off  to  the  poor-house 

Their  children  and  wives  may  go, 


56  OLD    CORPORAL    FOK.M>. 

And  the  heart  of  their  cause  be  clean-cut  out 
And  thrown  to  a  beaten  foe. 

We  ask  of  them  surely  nothing 

But  what  we  readily  grant, — 
The  right  of  free  speech  and  ballot ; 

To  reap  as  well  as  to  plant. 
Until  these  things  are  free  and  fair, 

Under  Southern  as  Northern  sun, 
The  work  in  which  our  brothers  fell 

Cannot  be  said  to  be  done. 


CLAY  IN  THE  HANDS.  OF  THE  PLOTTER. 

Ez  clay  in  the  hands  uv  the  Potter ! 

Well,  the  old  wheel  goes  'round, 
The  Potter  obeying  the  Plotter, 

Who  scents  all  frauds  like  a  hound. 
With  what  acute  precision 

He  scents  a  Republican  trail, 
An'  lifts  his  nose  high  into  the  air 

With  regulation  wail. 

How  they  lift  their  eyebrows  in  horror  ! 

While  tongues  are  thrust  into  their  cheeks, 
A-showin'  the  patriot  purpose 

Which  "Fraud"  &  Co.  seeks. 
They  won't  ketch  the  wrong  fish  this  time, 

They  don't  fish  the  Tilden  pond ; 
They're  only  goin'  a-fishing, 

Not  thinkiu'  uv  what  is  beyond. 

The  old  Fraud  goes  a-fraudin'; 
He  knows  how  it  is  himself, 


'OLD  CORPORAL,  POEMS.  57 

A-smilin'  'an  blinkin'  so  artful, 

The  old  ''cold  clam  on  the  shelf." 
An'  he  sings  'an  hums,  while  watchm* 

The  mischief  he's  trying  to  brew  — 
Florida  and  Louisiana  — 

Anything  more  won't  do. 

They're  clay  in  the  hands  uv  my  Potter, 

An'  Potter  himself  is  clay ; 
Ef  the  old  wheel  keeps  a-whirlin* 

They'll  fall  into  line  'an  obey. 
Can't  I  scent  a  fraud  and  find  it? 

I'm  bresithin'  my  native  air  ;  — 
Just  skip  New  York  an'  Oregon, 

For  Goff  and  Cypher  are  there  ! 

About  those  frauds  no  matter  ; 

I've  seen  all  them  before ; 
We  want  only  a  trail  to  take  us 

Right  up  to  the  White  House  door ; 
An'  then  we'll  walk  up  boldly 

(We  didn't  mean  it  before), 
An'  Rutherford  ?  —  oh  !  he'll  meekly 

Back  out  uv  some  back  door. 

The  old  "cold  clam"  is  a-warmin' 

A  horrible,  terrible  stew  : 
Why,  he'd  cut  up  even  the  White  House ! 

It'll  make  fine  kindlin',  too,  — 
This  tine  old  Railroad  Wrecker, 

A-waitin'  to  clutch  the  spoils, 
No  matter  what  goes  for  kindlin*  . 

Ef  his  own  fraud  pot-boils. 


58  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 


WANTED  :  A  CAPTAIN. 

Ef  God's  everlastin'  purposes 

Concernin'  this  favored  land 
Depend  on  sich  tools  ez  Anderson 

An'  the  cards  in  Tildeh's  hand, 
I  reckon  he'd  throw  up  the  business, 

Just  close  the  old  thing  out ;  — 
But  I  reckon  his  purpose  is  deeper, 

An'  he  will  bring  it  about. 

I  can't  think  he  is  planin' 

To  let  the  whole  thing  slip  ; 
I  reckon  he'll  find  a  master 

To  sail  the  good  old  ship. 
He's  got  too  much  invested, 

Too  much  by  far  at  stake, 
To  allow  his  plans  to  miscarry 

By  any  one  man's  mistake. 

I  don't  fear  for  the  safety 

Uv  the  cargo,  nor  the  ship, 
Because  God's  cables  an'  anchors 

Are  not  very  likely  to  slip. 
He  rules  the  tides  an'  the  currents, 

The  calms  an'  eddys,  all  ;  — 
An'  the  good  old  ship  won't  founder 

In  any  sudden  squall. 

An'  he  will  "  lay  to  "  to  help  us, 

Sending  a  Pilot  aboard  ! 
With  God  for  convoy  an'  escort 

To  wait  we  can  well  afford. 
So  we'll  throw  the  anchor  uv  jestice 

Held  well  by  cables  uv  law ; 
Clew  up  our  sail,  an'  safely 

Kide  out  the  sudden  flaw. 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS.  59 

With  colors  at  peak  an'  mizzen, 

Nailed  up  sure  an'  fast, 
Though  the  white  squall  whirl  an'  whistle, 

Its  fury  will  soon  be  past. 
An'  when  once  more  on  the  quarter-deck 

We  hear  the  old  Captain's  tread, 
An'  hear  his  trumpet  a-callin' 

"  Stand  by,  to  heave  the  lead  !  " 

"  Shake  out  the  main-sail  uv  labor  ; 

Look  sharp  !  stand  by  to  belay  ! " 
He'll  put  about  on  the  right  course, 

An'  we  shall  be  under  way. 
Then  we  shall  gather  headway, 

An'  then  the  old  sails  will  till, 
An'  belly  an'  tug  an'  take  us  away, 

Obey  in'  the  Captain's  will. 

All  that  we  want  is  a  Captain  ; 

So  we'll  anchor  an'  ride  the  gale, 
Till  the  old  Tanner's  gig  uv  leather 

Heaves  to  alongside  to  hail. 
An'  then  we'll  man  the  old  gangway, 

Throw  the  old  rope-ladder  out, 
Welcoming  home  from  foreign  shore 

With  tremendous  cheer  an'  shout. 

An'  then  the  whole  gang  uv  traitors 

Who  are  tryin'  to  scuttle  the  ship 
Shall  be  ironed  by  public  opinion, 

Chained  by  a  righteous  grip. 
An'  cargo,  an'  crew,  an'  passengers, 

Shall  lose  all  cause  uv  fear, 
"  Steady,"  shall  be  the  word  at  the  wheel ; 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  the  answer  clear. 


60  OLD    COKPORAL    POEMS. 


THE   CORPORAL  BREAKS  SILENCE. 

"I've  been  try  in',  parson, 

To  find  where  I  am,  an'  what : 
That  I  wax  a  Union  soldier 

I  hardly  have  forgot, 
But  wluj  I  was,  or  the  good  uv  it, 

Don't  seem  plain  to-day  ; 
That  I'd  go  again,  if  able, 

I'm  not  quite  ready  to  say. 

"  They've  thrown  away  the  victory 

We  bought  with  toil  an'  blood  ; 
Hear  the  Senate  and  House  a-ringin' 

AY  ith  roar  uv  treason's  flood  ; 
The  crew  a-conspirin'  to  scuttle 

The  good  old  Union  ship  ! 
Ef  the  man  at  the  wheel  don't  save  us, 

They've  got  us  in  their  grip. 

"  An'  they'll  jest  ez  surely  triumph 

Ez  we  allow  them  to  gain 
Control  uv  the  helm  an'  keep  it ; 

The  plan  uv  their  iight  is  ez  plain 
Ez  ever  their  line  of  battle, 

AYhen  in  more  manly  way 
They  sought  to  wrest  a  victory 

From  the  heat  uv  deadly  fray. 

"  My  hope  is  that  the  reptile 

Whose  rattle  an'  venomous  hiss 
Gave  us  of  old,  sure  warning, 

Will  rattle  again  in  this 
His  renewed  an'  reckless  battle, 

Agin  Union  with  the  North ; 
Ef  so,  we  may  know  the  course 

On  which  his  hate  goes  forth. 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS.  61 

"The  fang  uv  that  snake  is  deadly. 

Let  us  hope  that  his  rattle  is  sure  ; 
That  he  won't  have  the  sense  to  hide  it, 

While  we're  asleep  secure, 
But  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate, 

An'  in  the  lower  hall, 
Will  unwittingly  sound  the  summons 

That  again  to  the  lines  will  call, 

"All  who  fought  for  the  Union, 

All  who  gave  brothers  an'  friends, 
To  rally  again  to  meet  them, 

Though  the  Solid  South  defends. 
Where  is  the  faith  an'  the  spirit, 

That  arose  in  'sixty-one, 
Standin'  unflinchin'  an'  loyal, 

Until  the  battle  was  done  ? 

"Let  us  leave  our  soldiers'  monuments, 

An'  level  their  humble  graves; 
Hide  our  old  swords  an'  muskets, 

An'  cringe  like  a  pack  uv  slaves 
Before  the  swagger  an'  flourish  ; 

No,  '  we've  come  back  to  stay ' 
An'  suck  the  blood  uv  the  nation, 

An'  vote  its  life  away  !  • 

"Ef  my  old  leg  in  the  Wilderness 

Doesn't  kick  their  traitorous  sod, 
I  swear  I  will  not  own  it 

In  the  last  great  day  uv  God, 
When  he  in  the  resurrection 

Gives  back  my  Imried  limb; 
I'll  limp  forever  through  glory,  — 

Ef  it's  all  the  same  to  him, 

"  Before  I'll  wear  about  me 
One  bit  uv  blood  or  bone 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

That  doesn't  hate  treason  forever, 
Whether  its  front  is  shown 

On  the  lines  of  the  Appomattox, 
Or  in  legislative  halls  ; 

"Whether  it  tight  with  bullets, 
Or  slay  with  ballot  balls." 

Four  years  since  the  Corporal 

Predicted  Hill's  Brigade 
Would  make  on  the  Union  Congress 

A  fatal  and  deadly  raid. 
He  has  lived  to  see  Hill  in  the  Senate, 

And  to  hear  a  live  rebel  say, 
"  We're  here  to  sweep  every  vestige 

Of  war  legislation  away." 


FALL  IN  1 

[Written  for  the  "  Bangov  Daily  Whi>r  and  Courier,"  and  published  within  a  few 
<l;iy-  of  the  State  Election,  held  in  Maine,  Sept.  8,  1879,  and  the  last  of  the  Politi 
cal  Series  of  the  Old  Corporal  Ballads,  and  the  last  but  one  of  Mr.  Coan's  satires.] 

We're, formin'  the  old  line,  comrades, 

In  our  good  old  Pine  Tree  State, 
Uv  the  men  who  were  boys  in  'tifty-six, 

An'  in  'sixty  voted  straight 
For  the  sainted  Abraham  Lincoln, 

With  a  purpose  plain  an'  clear, 
That  swept  to  the  goal  uv  victory 

AVith  loyal  an'  ringin'  cheer. 

Last  year  there  was  dissatisfaction  ; 

Deserters  were  all  along, 
Who  wouldn't  close  in  with  the  column, 

But  swelled  the  stragglers'  throng, 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS.  63 

That  lost  us  the  State  an'  the  battle 
"\Vhich  by  right  we  should  have  won, 

An'  would ,  ef  we'd  wisely  measured 
The  work  that  was  belli'  done. 

0 

"We  were  sold  to  the  foe  we  had  battled, 

Yes,  whipt,  without  favor  or  fear ; 
A  foe  we  can  always  handle 

Ef  the  issue  is  plain  an'  clear. 
An'  now  that  we've  heard  the  warnin' 

Uv  venomous  rattle  an'  hiss, 
"We  propose  to  write  on  our  banners 

A  victory  in  this, 

Our  campaign  for  honest  money, 

For  honest  an'  loyal  men  ;  — 
For  freedom,  an'  right  uv  ballot. 

Anywhere,  an'  anywhere. 
For,  ef  they  can  Yazoo  Dimercrats, 

On  the  Mississippi  plan, 
They  are  really  robbin' the  franchise 

Uv  every  Northern  man. 

For  each  one  they  slay,  or  frighten 

Away  from  a  freeman's  right, 
In  Yazoo,  Memphis,  or  Hamburg, 

It's  the  same  ez  ef  shot  in  our  sight : 
It  is  freedom  that  they  are  slayin' 

With  assassin's  shot  an'  stab, 
However  Lamar  an'  the  leaders 

May  whine  out  their  loyal  gab. 

The  cloven  foot  uv  their  purpose 

Is  too  soon  an'  too  plainly  shown 
To  the  men  who  have  foced  their  rifles 

An'  the  sound  uv  their  yell  have  known. 
So  three  times  three  an'  a  tiger, 

Shall  rend  our  September  air 


64  OLD   CORPORAL   POEM-, 

Till  their  famished  an'  hungry  tiger 
Skulks  away  to  his  hidden  lair. 

So  here's  to  our  Corporal  Davis 

Who  shall  grace  our  Governor's  chair; 
Honest  men  an'  honest  money, 

With  elections  on  the  square, 
An'  the  Greenback-Gray  hack  alliance, 

A  delusion  all  an'  a  snare, 
Shall  show  up  the  Salt  river  rapids 

To  camp  on  the  head-waters  there  ! 

It's  a  rill  to  which  they're  accustomed, 

They  know  the  spot  uv  their  camp, 
Although  last  year  they  wandered 

From  the  beat  uv  their  usual  tramp. 
Already  their  scouts  are  explorin' 

A  suitable  campin'  place, 
For  they  scent  defeat  in  the  air, 

An'  know  they  have  lost  the  race. 


THE  PARSON  TO  THE  CORPORAL. 

They  might  hope  to  harness  the  whirlwind  ; 

They  might  hope  to  check  the  tide  ; 
But  had  better  not  make  the  endeavor 

To  stem  the  current  and  ride 
On  an  angry  public  upheaval, 

Thinking  to  make  it  go 
Some  other  way  than  the  fated 

Course  of  its  certain  flow. 

When  rebels  stand  up  to  berate  us 
For  our  part  in  'sixty-one, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  65 

It  seems  that  Pacification's 

Work  is  clumsily  done  ! 
The  cloven  foot  of  their  motive 

Appears  a  little  too  quick 
To  leave  them  a  chance  of  succeeding 

In  the  work  of  their  treacherous  trick. 

If  you  give  enough  rope  to  the  devil 

He  is  sure  to  hang  himself! 
The  doughface  politician  is  sure  to  find  his  place, 

Is  sure  to  find  his  shelf,  , 

And  climb  to  it  briskly, 

And  pack  himself  away, 
As  ever  the  night  is  sure 

To  follow  the  light  of  day. 

Let  them  howl  on,  then,  and  threaten  ! 

They  only  make  more  sure 
The  fate  we  have  predicted,  — 

That  men  will  not  endure 
Their  rashly  renewed  endeavor 

To  do  through  political  strife 
What  they  failed  to  do  before 

With  bullet  and  bowTie-knife. 

So  look  sharp  to  their  Congress ; 

Be  ready  and  quick  to  hear 
The  yell  of  those  rampant  rebels  ; 

So  rang  their  joyful  cheer 
When  the  lines  of  the  loyal  faltered, 

Or  turned  white  faces  to  God  ; 
When  their  red  blood  flowing  freely 

Enriched  their  Southern  sod. 

We  forget  not  the  foes  who  fought  us 

So  long  as  that  old-time  cheer 
From  the  ranks  of  political  leaders 

In  Congress  we  plainly  hear. 


66  OLD   CORPORAL,    POEMS. 

But  stand  alert,  and  ready 

To  strike  for  freedom  and  right. 

Whether  with  arras  they  front  us 
Or  in  political  ambush  tight. 


THE  OLD  BUGLE  CALL. 

Bring  out  the  old  battered  bugle 

That  soiinded  in  'sixty-one, 
Bousing  each  gray- headed  father, 

Daughter,  and  daring  son. 
We  have  not  all  forgotten 

Those  stirring  heroic  days 
When  the  fairest  for  the  bravest 

Twined  their  immortal  bays. 

It  is  well  that  some  of  us  see  clearly 

The  drift  of  commercial  stream, 
And  dare  on  the  tide  swift  rushing 

The  light  of  truth  to  beam  ; 
And  to  swear  in  the  light  of  those  lesson-. 

And  the  lost  light  of  loyal  eyes, 
To  kindle  anew  the  signals 

That  shall  flash  athwart  the  skies. 

The  lessons  of  the  brave  dead  teach  us, 

As  though  they  were  with  us  yet ; 
The  look  of  whose  eyes  as  we  closed  them 

We  never  can  forget, 
When  they  lay  in  the  damps  of  evening, 

After  the  battle  was  done, 
Pulseless,  cold,  and  livid, 

Cold,  under  tropic  sun. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  67 

We  forgive  the  brave  who  fought  us, 

Nor  cling  to  one  thought  of  war  ; 
But  will  hate  forever  and  deeply 

The  cause  which  they  suffered  for  ; 
And  will  hate  it  and  fight  it  forever, 

And  them,  if  they  dare  defend 
The  fratricide  right  of  secession, 

Which  we  thought  the  war  would  end. 

We  have  guns  yet,  swords,  and  saddles, 

That  are  red  with  loyal  stains, 
Hid  now  under  rust  which  encrusts  them 

With  each  year's  suns  and  rains  ; 
And  until  Time's  hand  efface  them, 

Those  tokens  of  loyal  death, 
We  swear  that  our  hearts  shall  be  loyal 

And  our  lives  breathe  loyal  breath. 

And  whatever  guise  that  serpent 

State  Sovereignty  shall  wear, 
We  will  tear  off  that  guise,  and  throttle 

Till  its  heart  from  its  carcass  we  tear ; 
For  we  learned  to  hate  treason  and  traitors, 

And  will  teach  to  our  daughters  and  sons 
The  lessons  from  lips  and  faces 

Made  livid  by  State  Sovereign  guns. 


t)-S  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


THE    SAME    OLD    FLAG. 

Bring  out  the  old  campaign  colors, 

Hoist  the  old  banner  high, 
With  starry  blue  and  crimson, 

Clear  in  the  autumn  sky,  — 
The  same  old  flag  that  in  'sixty, 

And  later  in  'sixty-one, 
We  hailed  with  tears  of  devotion. 

When  the  skies  were  heavy  and  dim. 

We  followed  it  in  its  peril, 

That  its  folds  might  know  no  stain  ; 
And  now  that  dishonor  threatens 

We  rally  around  it  again. 
We  perilled  our  lives  for  its  honor ; 

Can  we  not  give  watchful  toil, 
That  no  fanatic  delusion 

Its  unsullied  lustre  soil? 

When  the  old  world's  socialist  convicts 

Hiss  out  fanatic  hate, 
Assailing  our  free  republic 

As  they  would  a  tyrannous  state, 
We  will  rally  around  the  standard, 

We  will  lift  the  old  banner  high, 
Will  vote  and  toil  for  its  honor, 

As  once  we  were  ready  to  die. 

Defending  now  with  the  ballot, 

As  we  did  with  the  bayonet  then, 
With  cordons  of  steel  and  iron, 

In  the  hands  and  hearts  of  men, 
We  will  give  no  vote  to  dishonor 

The  sheen  of  its  starry  flow, 
That  shall  shame  when  in  the  future 

The  deeds  of  to-day  are  told. 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS.  ()J) 

We  fought  disunion  and  treason 

As  loyal  freemen  then  ; 
And  now  dishonor  and  folly 

In  the  hearts  of  misguided  men. 
Though  the  load  to  be  borne  is  heavier    . 

Than  we  in  the  darkness  saw, 
We  may  not  refuse  without  breaking 

The  s;icred  segis  of  law. 

'Tis  the  fate  of  war  and  the  nation, 

Cursed  by  a  traitor's  crew  ; 
Though  they  were  false  to  their  pledges, 

For  us  it  remained  to  be  true. 
We  stand  by  the  bond  —  our  honor 

And  safety  bind  us  there  ; 
Of  breaking  the  nation's  pledges 

It  behooves  us  well  to  beware. 


BANGOR,  Sept.  9,  1880. 


PART    II 


PART    II. 

SIMON    GAKEW. 

A  LEGEND  OF  GULF  GLEN.* 

If  I  could  paint  the  North  Maine  woods, 

The  sweep  of  grand  old  hills, 
The  bald  gray  granite  mountain  range, 

The  clear  moss-bedded  rills  ; 
Bring  scent  of  balsam  odors  here, 

Or  sounds  of  forest  night, 
The  soughing  wind  in  tasselled  pine, 

The  glow  of  camp-fire  light ; 
Or  etch  the  flash  of  speckled  trout 

Through  deep,  clear  mountain  pool ; 
Or  sketch  September  sunsets,  and 

The  night  air  clear  and  cool ; 
The  relished  fare,  the  hunger  keen, 

The  game-feast  spread  in  camp  ; 
Or  slumber  deep  on  scented  boughs 

After  a  day's  long  tramp, — 

Sketch  you  the  fair  Ebemee  * 

As  pleasant  as  it  sounds, 
Or  give  the  rugged  Hagus  Gorge  ;  * 

The  mountain,  hunting-grounds  ; 
The  graceful  poise  of  startled  deer, 

The  rough,  majestic  moose, 

*  See  note  at  end  of  book. 


74  OLD   CORPORAL   POEM-. 

The  swift,  ungraceful  caribou, 

The  wily  hunter's  ruse  ;  — 
I  then  would  paint  exactly  where 

The  old  guide  sat  and  told 
Of  strange  Garew,  the  French  half-breed, 

And  frontier  days  of  old ,  — 
Would  paint  the  jutting  boulders  there, 

The  strong  human  face, 
So  silent,  thoughtful,  stern  and  grand, 

That  you  might  know  the  place 
Where  still  it  hangs,  the  same  as  then, 

On  rugged  mountain  side, 
Gazing  adown  the  wild  old  glen 

Into  the  torrent's  tide. 

Nor  pen  nor  pencil  reproduce 

Such  scenes  and  sounds  as  those, 
The  best  eludes  the  artist's  skill 

As  odor  in  the  rose. 
So  only  now  the  story  weird 

Of  old-time  frontier  day, 
Repeating  here  the  old  guide's  words, 

As  near  as  ballad  may  :  — 
***#*** 

"  Have  a  light  ?     There  !  that  is  better. 

How's  this  for  a  camping-place? 
You'll  have  to  move  back  to  the  shelter, 

Or  the  heat  will  scorch  yer  face. 
Never  heard  of  Garew  ?     That's  queer. 

'Twas  'round  Ebemee,  and  here 
He  came  with  his  dog  and  rifle,  — 

Came  twice  in  every  year. 

"Once  when  the  snow  was  crusted, 

And  once  when  the  leaves  were  red, 
And  the  river  was  low  in  Hagus, 
So  he  could  follow  the  bed ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  75 

His  mother,  an  Oldtown  Indian  girl, 
By  a  roving  French  trader  betrayed ; 

But  a  noiseless  Indian  arrow 
Avenged  the  beautiful  maid. 

"But  the  child  grew  silent  and  thoughtful, 

And  always  every  year, 
After  he*  grew  to  manhood, 

Came  twice  to  this  forest  here. 
Still  he  lived  with  his  mother  at  Oldtown ; 

And  when,  at  last,  she  died, 
He  followed  alone  to  her  burial 

With  only  his  dog  at  his  side. 

"  And  still  he  kept  the  old  cabin, 

With  the  same  half-savage  ways, 
Till  he  grew  to  be  old  and  feeble 

In  his  own  last,  lonely  days  ; 
And  then  all  the  neighbors  wondered 

What  made  him  persist  to  go 
To  the  Gulf  when  the  leaves  grew  red, 

And  again  on  the  crusted  snow. 

"  But  at  last  he  told  them  his  secret, 

With  great  solemnity  said  :  — 
( The  Great  Spirit  comes  to  the  face  in  the  rock, 

The  moon  when  the  leaves  grow  red  ; 
And  when  the  round  moon  shines  upon  it, 

Shines  into  the  Gulf  at  night, 
Shines  full  and  fair  upon  it, 

Making  it  plain  and  white,  — 

'Whoever  waits  there,  with  fasting, 

Below  the  strong  face, 
With  a  young  deer's  blood  for  offering, 
Always  finds  pardon  and  peace.' 


7li  OLD   CORPORAL,   POEMS. 

This  the  Great  Spirit  had  told  him, 
And  had  many  times  proved  true ; 

And  once  more  he  purposed  going, 
Though  he  solemnly  said  he  knew 

''  (The  Great  Spirit  surely  had  told  him) 

He  would  never  again  come  out ; 
Yet  still  would  he  go  and  die  there 

(Of  this  he  had  never  a  doubt) . 
So  soon  as  the  August  moon  told  him 

The  waters  in  Hagus  were  low, 
To  be  sure  of  the  needed  offering, 

With  rifle  and  dog  would  go. 

"  He  went,  as  purposed,  and  living 

He  came  not  out  again, 
And  the  villagers  down  the  river 

Watched  for  his  coming  in  vain. 
That  time  the  face  of  the  full  moon 

Shone  not  on  the  face  in  the  rock, 
For  a  storm  hung  black  in  the  heavens, 

And  the  winds  and  the  tempest's  shock 

"  Roared  through  a  week  of  storms, 

Such  as  ever  and  only  is  known 
When  the  storm  is  too  dense  and  heavy 

To  be  lifted  by  the  moon. 
That  autumn,  they  say,  the  hunters 

Saw  lingering  in  the  glen 
A  strange  dog,  gaunt  and  wistful, 

Going  and  coming  again 

'r  To  the  point  whence  we  see  the  face  ; 

And  the  legend  also  saith 
That  the  faithful  dog,  like  his  master, 
Was  faithful  unto  death. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  77 

Near  the  close  of  that  week  of  tempests 

The  full  moon's  night  came  on, 
But  the  storm  hung  heavy  and  sullen, 

The  stars  and  the  moon  were  gone. 

"  Gray  and  turgid  the  river  rose, 

And  roared  down  the  fearful  glen, 
And  just  at  his  time  of  offering,  — 

The  storm  was  wildest  then,  — 
Did  he  wait  there  alone  in  the  darkness, 

Watching  in  vain  for  the  face  ? 
Did  he  perish  in  the  floods  that 

Roar  down  that  fearful  place  ? 

"  Well,  the  Indians  down  the  river, 

And  some  other  people,  say, 
That  still  on  the  moon  when  the  leaves  are  red, 

The  very  same  hour  of  the  day 
When  the  full  moon  shines  into  Hagus, 

The  man  and  the  dog  come  back 
And  wait  for  the  pardon  he  found  not, 

The  night  when  the  storm  was  black." 

***** 

If  now  the  light  of  weird  camp-fire, 

The  old  guide's  dreamy  maze, 
Could  flash  and  gleam  a  moment  here  ; 

The  flickering,  fitful  blaze 
Shine  here  upon  you  as  you  read, 

And  darkness  gathers  round  ; 
The  river's  ceaseless  monotone  ; 

The  night  birds  in  the  tree  ; 
The  beast's  wild  yell  in  forest  near 

That  seems  your  blood  would  freeze, 
And  you  cpuld  lend  your  fancy 

To  the  leadings  of  all  these  ; 
Could  drift  and  dream  along  the  maze 

Of  stray  and  sombre  spell 


78  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

To  which  my  vagrant  fancies  then, 

After  listening,  fell, — 
Then  I  might  hope  this  border  tale 

Might  seem  the  same  to  you 
As  there  that  night  it  seemed  to  me, 

This  Legend  of  Garew. 


TRIBUTE  OF  SMILES  AND  TEARS. 

A    JUNE    SONG. 

Bobolink,  jaunty  and  joyous  ! 

Brave  singer,  I  greet  you  to-day  ! 
Would  I  could  weave  your  music 

And  melody  into  my  lay. 
Could  I  catch  its  rollicking  movements, 

Its  melody,  liquid  and  clear, 
Its  generous,  wild  abandon, 

Its  gladsome,  challenging  cheer  ; 

Its  joy  of  anticipation. 

Its  love  of  mate  and  young, 
I  would  fill  the  air  with  the  sweetest 

Song  that  ever  was  sung  ; 
Pour  it  out  with  ecstatic  pleasure 

On  the  tremulous,  throbbing  air, 
Filling  men's  hearts  with  its  solace 

For  toil  and  worry  and  care. 

I  would  strive  to  sing  away  sadness 
From  the  hearts  of  sorrowing  men, 

Until  they  should  listen  and  love  me, 
And  bless  me  again  and  again, 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS.  79 

As  I  have  blessed  you  for  your  riotous, 

Rapturous  rush  of  song, 
Until  heart  after  heart  should  echo 

Your  generous  strain,  and  prolong. 

O  bird  of  my  boyhood's  fancy  ! 

Do  you  know  how  you  bring  back  the  years 
Before  life  was  earnest  and  tragic, 

Or  my  eyes  had  been  dim  with  tears 
For  the  dead  and  the  dying, 

Or  my  heart  had  been  torn  with  pain, 
Or  become  the  place  of  burial 

For  bright  hopes  ruthlessly  slain  ? 

My  mother's  kind  voice,  and  the  loving, 

Radiant  light  of  her  face, 
Making  home  bright  by  its  presence 

With  nameless  and  blessed  grace  ; 
Sweet  sisters,  brothers  and  playmates,  . 

Father  and  questioning  boy,  — 
All  come  thronging  around  me 

Through  the  rush  of  your  turbulent  joy. 

Sing,  brave  bird  of  June  joy, 

Heed  not  my  pleasure  or  tears  ! 
How  little  you  know  that  you  people 

The  air  with  life  of  those  years, 
Some  of  them  gleaming  with  sabres, 

Red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
Which  come  trooping  back  at  your  summons,  - 

Your  song  has  not  been  in  vain. 

And  white  faces  that  are  reposing, 

With  pale  hands  folded  and  crossed, 
In  silence  sweep  past  my  vision, 

While  the  trill  of  your  song  has  been  tossed 
With  such  defiant  abandon 

Out  over  the  roses  of  June, 


80  OLD   CORPORAL   POEM-. 

In  strange  and  curious  contrast 
To  the  roll  of  your  jubilant  tune. 

So  into  my  heart  the  minor 

Refrain  of  memory  came, 
Unbidden,  but  blessed  and  welcome  ; 

And  you  the  power  may  claim, 
From  the  spell  of  your  magical  genius, 

On  through  Time's  coining  years, 
What  I  your  song  have  rendered, 

A  tribute  of  smiles  and  tears. 


SOLOMON    SHIRK. 

Old  Solomon  Shirk  was  a  blue  hard-shell, 

With  a  hatchet  face,  and  a  long  hooked  nose  ; 
We  all  knew  the  tale  he  used  to  tell 

When  he  in  prayer-meeting  arose. 
He  was  such  a  sinner  !  you  wouldn't  believe 

If  he  was  telling  about  it. 
Yet  it  came  with  an  unction  you  cannot  conceive, 

And  some  of  us  didn't  doubt  it. 

But  he  did  not  mean  it  any  while, 

And  if  another  had  said  it 
Would  have  put  on  his  resignation  smile, 

Giving  persecution  credit ; 
A  poor,  sick  neighbor  might  starve  and  die,  — 

He  would  not  bother  about  it ; 
And  this  was  just  the  reason  why 

Some  of  us  didn't  doubt  it. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

The  generous  Master's  golden  rule 

To  him  was  a  meaningless  myth ; 
And  in  life's  rough-and-tumble  school 

He  knew  neither  kin  nor  kith  ; 
The  years  did  not  mellow  his  leathern  heart, 

Nor  abate  his  clutch  of  pelf ; 
In  Charity's  mission  he  had  no  part, 

He  loved  alone  his  own  mean  self. 

In  an  old  red  school-house  a  meeting  was  held  ; 

It  was  full,  "  the  interest  intense  ;  " 
At  the  usual  time  the  crowd  beheld 

"  Old  Sol "  arise  ;  a  pause,  —  suspense. 
But  he  told  the  worn  and  hackneyed  tale, 

Of  his  fearful,  "terrible,  wicked  heart," 
And  closing  with  his  old  lugubrious  wail, 

Sat  down,  having  "taken  a  part." 

Then  up  rose  Jim,  a  sinner  indeed,  — 

Of  this  we  hadn't  a  doubt. 
When  he  arose  they  all  gave  heed, 

For  "Jim  must  be  a-comin'  out." 
"  What  that  mean  old  hulk  is  sayin'  is  true, 

And  I  can  bear  witness  tew  it ; 
Ef  there's  anything  meaner'n  the  devil  can  dew, 

He  is  jist  the  sinner  to  dew  it." 


82  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


SKATING   SONG. 

The  bright  steel  rings  ;  the  skater 

With  rhythmic  movement,  lithe  and  slow, 
To  deftly  glide  o'er  the  frozen  tide, 

While  fair  cheeks  flush  with  mantling  glow. 
The  ice-field  rings  ;  like  flash  of  wings 

The  cloud  of  fleet  forms  flying  fast, 
With  swifter  rush  and  deafening  flush  : 

The  sport  of  winter  reigns  at  last. 

With  graceful  whirl  and  gleaming  swirl 

They  spin  with  deft  and  swift  device  ; 
And  cut  the  name  of  blushing  fame 

In  feathery  monogram  of  ice. 
Away,  away  !  they  rush  away, 

O'er  gleaming  lake  and  crystal  bay ; 
Nor  bird  on  wing  nor  flying  thing 

Can  whirl  with  swifter  grace  than  they  ! 

Like  maze  of  dance,  or  flying  lance, 

A  tournament  of  sport  and  glee  ; 
Nor  would  refuse  to  sing  the  muse 

Of  olden  sports  and  minstrelsy. 
The  strain  prolong,  ye  joyous  throng  ! 

Shout  out  your  songs  on  winter  air ; 
Nor  pine  for  ways  of  other  days, 

For  youth  more  lithe  nor  maids  more  fair. 

So  now  we  slide  with  homeward  glide, 

The  north  wind  whirls  us  down  the  bay  ; 
Nor  ease  nor  pride  shall  set  aside 

This  splendid  sport  of  winter's  day. 
The  bright  steel  rings  ;  the  skater  swings 

With  rhythmic  movement,  lithe  and  slow  ; 
They  fleetly  glide  o'er  frozen  tide, 

While  fair  cheeks  flush  with  mantling  glow. 

DM  i  MIII  i:.  1876. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  83 


IN  AFFLICTION. 

Alike  over  sunshine  and  darkness 

Bendeth  the  heaven  of  God, 
We  stumble  and  bleed  in  the  pathway 

Where  thousands  before  have  trod,  — 
Have  trod  with  grief  as  bitter, 

With  struggles  as  blind  and  wild, 
And  passed  on  into  the  sunshine 

Where  Heaven  again  had  smiled. 

Though  the  stars  are  hidden  in  darkness, 

Though  the  light  of  day  depart, 
Light  above  abides  unchanging, 

Though  hidden  from  eye  and  heart. 
Hold  still !  in  the  fire  of  the  furnace, 

Yea,  have  you  not  been  told, 
From  heat  that  is  white  and  blinding 

Gleameth  out  the  moulten  gold  ? 


JANUARY  18,  1878. 


WATER  LILIES. 

Our  little  white  lily  has  fallen  ; 

It  dropped  on  a  barren  strand, 
And  floated  away  011  the  water, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  my  hand. 

Into  the  mists  and  the  darkness, 

Far  away  from  the  clamorous  strife, 

It  floats,  and  I  may  not  reach  it,  — 
My  little  white  lily  of  life. 


84  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Oh,  the  little  white  face  of  my  darling  ! 

How  it  shone  with  a  light  serene, 
As  cleaving  the  turbulent  river, 

Its  tremulous  light  was  seen  ! 

And  now  the  mists  rise  in  the  darkness, 
And  the  black  spray  dashes  afar, 

But  flashing  and  white  in  the  distance 
That  little  face  shines  as  a  star. 

Though  the  waves  of  that  river  are  fearful, 
And  the  storm  on  its  bosom  is  wild, 

There  is  floating,  untouched  by  terror, 
The  face  of  a  little  child. 


•:  v  :> 


THE  ROBINS'  CALL. 

All  through  the  beautiful  summer,  — 

The  last  that  our  darling  was  here, — 
The  robins  sang  out  so  sweetly, 
Speaking  so  plainly  and  neatly 

Their  meaning  was  always  clear, 
To  the  golden  head  that  kept  dancing 

In  and  out  the  long  day  through, 
Flitting  like  one  of  their  number, 
With  no  fear  or  care  to  encumber 

The  joy  his  blithe  heart  knew. 

I  am  sure  they  knew  and  called  him, 

Well  aware  of  his  prattle  and  play  ; 
When  he  strolled  to  the  tree  where  they  nested, 
Unruffled  they  worked  on,  or  rested, — 
No  fear  of  our  darling  had  they. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  85 

And  when  the  brown  autumn  had  silenced 

The  noise  of  their  turbulent  song, 
They  seemed  saddened  at  thought  of  leaving 
Our  darling  alone  to  be  grieving 

For  them  the  whole  winter  long. 

But  when  the  last  flock  had  vanished, 

And  fallen  the  last  autumn  leaf, 
When  the  bare  fields,  brown  and  forsaken, 
No  more  to  their  echoes  awaken, 

Seemingly  silent  in  grief, 
Little  golden  head  ceased  his  flitting 

In  and  out  at  the  open  door,  — 
Flew  away  like  the  birds  of  the  summer,    ^ 
His  trusting  playfellows  of  summer, 

To  rest  in  our  arms  no  more. 

When  the  robins  came  back  to  our  garden, 

With  the  early  days  of  spring, 
And  awoke  us  from  morning  slumber, 
The  sweetest  of  all  their  number 

Came  close  to  our  window  to  sing  : 
"  Come  out,  little  golden  hair,  darling ; 

Come  out  for  your  morning  play  ; 
We  are  here  bright  and  early  to  meet  you, 
With  the  loudest  of  songs  to  greet  you, 

The  sweetest  bright  hour  of  the  day  !  " 

And  then  he  waited  and  listened, 

Then  quickly  around  by  the  door, 
More  loudly,  sweetly,  and  purely, 
With  music  of  human  speech  surely, 

Would  the  same  sweet  summons  outpour. 
And  all  day  long  he  kept  calling, 

And  still  he  seemed  to  say  : 
"Come  out,  little  golden-haired  Freddie, 
We're  waiting  ;  strange  you're  not  ready  ; 

You  were  always  ready  for  play." 


86  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

And  after  their  nest  was  finished, 

When,  peeping  out  over  the  brim, 
They  seemed  to  wait  for  his  coming, 
They  listened,  it  seemed,  for  his  drumming, 

Mournfully  chirping  for  him  ; 
And  now,  every  day,  they  keep  calling^ 

With  a  challenge  loud  and  clear ; 
Or,  pausing,  they  listen  and  ponder, 
Musing,  with  bird-like  wonder, 

Why  golden  head  does  not  hear. 

FALL  RIVER,  June,   1874. 


CRADLE   SONG. 

Come,  fairy,  come,  fairy, 

And  build  me  a  palace, 
A  castle,  a  castle,      , 
.     Hung  high  in  the  air  ; 
Build  well  for  my  darling, 

My  wee  lady  Alice, 
Build  it  and  fill  it 

With  radiance  rare. 
Build  that  impurity 

Never  may  mar  it ; 
Build  that  the  joy  of  joy 

Ever  may  cheer  it ; 
Build  that  sweet  purity 

Never  may  fear  it ; 
Yes,  bathe  it  and  fill  it 

With  radiance  rare. 

Singing  low  lullabies 
To  sweet  little  Alice  : 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS.  87 

Singing  slow  and  softly, — 

She  floats  on  the  air, 
Floating  slowly  away 

To  her  dreamland  palace, 
And  fairy-land  welcome 

Awaiting  her  there. 
O  God  !  keep  my  darling, 

My  sweet  sleeping  darling, 
My  merry-eyed,  rosy-lipped, 

Dimpled-touched  darling  ! 
Forgive  the  light  fancy 

I  sing  to  my  darling, 
And  fit  for  thy  palace, 

With  radiance  rare. 


WIDE   AWAKE. 

Dear  little  clear-eyed  Jessie; 

What  do  you  see  afar 
In  the  evening's  deepening  shadows  ? 

Oh,  the  Evening  Star  ! 
Two  eyes  wide  with  wonder, 

Little  hands  dimpled  and  pink, 
Resting  here  in  the  twilight, 

What  does  my  little  one  think? 

Smiling  so  happy  and  peaceful, 

Dreamily  gazing  afar, 
The  little  white  face  of  my  darling 

Wondering  at  a  star. 
Dreamily  droop  her  eyelids 

Over  her  limpid  eyes, 
Swaying  here  in  the  twilight 

Sweet  little  Jessie  lies. 


88  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Alice,  the  baby-mother, 

Whispers,  while  gliding  around, 
Fearing  to  wake  the  sleeper, 

Moving  without  a  sound,  — 
"  Just  see  my  darling  sister  ! 

Isn't  she  darling,  ma? 
Gone  to  sleep  in  her  cradle 

While  she  was  watching  a  star." 

Wide  awake,  Alice  watches  ; 

She  is  a  "  lady  "  now, 
Care  for  dear  little  sister 

Marking  her  baby  brow. 
But  her  lids  drop  while  watching, 

Dreamily  gazing  afar, 
Joins  "  dear  little  sister  "  sleeping, 

While  she  is  watching  a  star. 

Sleep,  sweet  babes,  in  the  twilight ! 

Lips  apart  over  pearls, 
The  sweet  breath  of  the  sleepers 

Swaying  a  tangle  of  curls. 
May  the  dawn  of  day  be  sure, 

Sure,  but  be  it  far, 
When  their  bright  eyes  shall  awaken 

To  the  light  of  the  Morning  Star. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  89 


THE   OVERLAND   EASTERN. 

Rush  and  rattle  !  roar  and  scream  ! 

Crash  through  the  night  like  a  meteor's  gleam  ! 

Death  or  life,  dashing  on  ! 

Thundering,  crashing  on  ! 
A  glance  of  a  grim  Titanic  dream  ! 
A  flash  of  the  iron-black  wing  of  steam  ! 

Out  and  on  !  and  on  !  and  far  away  ! 
Dashing  on  into  the  dawn  of  day  ! 

Light  and  shade  roaring  on  ! 

Flashing  and  thundering  on  ! 
Shooting  into  the  night  a  fiery  spray  ! 
Careering  on  over  the  iron  way  ! 

Before  it  those  unwound  ribbons  of  steel 
Awaiting  the  iron  coursers  heel ! 

Waiting  the  steady,  clear 

Glance  of  the  engineer ; 
The  rhythmic  throb  of  the  flying  wheel ! 
The  messenger  swift  of  woe  and  weal ! 

Behind  it  the  sullenly  silent  track  ! 

The  voiceless  night,  now  silent  and  black ; 

Like  a  dream  !  like  a  flash  ! 

Through  a  thunderous  crash  ;  — 
A  far-away  warning  scream  echoing  back 
Over  those  lustreless  lines  of  black  ! 

Shivering,  pulseless,  fateful  thing  ! 
Lustreless  flash  of  an  iron  wing  ! 

Panting  and  shrieking  ! 

Lifeless,  yet  reeking  ! 
Making  the  starless  welkin  ring 
With  the  thunderous  storm  of  sound  you  bring  ! 


90  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Rush  and  rattle  !  roar  and  scream  ! 

Crash  through  the  night  like  a  meteor's  gleam  ! 

Death  or  life,  dashing  on  ! 

Thundering,  crashing  on  !  — 
The  glance  of  a  grim  Titanic  dream  ! 
A  flash  of  the  night-black  wing  of  steam  ! 


THE    MOUNTAIN    RILL. 

A  mountain  rill,  purling  down  a  glen 
Among  pebbles  and  green  mossy  banks, 

Quenching  thirst  of  wanderers  now  and  then, 
Seeing  liquid  eyes  brimming  with  thanks, 

Sighed,  "  Oh,  we  go  plashing  and  tumbling  down 

Where  multitudes  daily  meet, 
To  gladden  sad  hearts  in  the  sultry  town, 

And  freshen  the  torrid  street." 

But  alas  !  and  alas  !  the  brook  knew  not 

Its  need  of  its  own  green  dell ; 
That  it  needed  the  charm  of  sylvan  spot, 

For  the  power  of  its  siren  spell ; 

That  gutter,  or  sewer,  or  putrid  drain, 

Is  a  rill  in  the  crowded  town ; 
A  scouring  servant,  bound  by  chain, 

Despised  by  the  meanest  clown  ; 

Or  held  by  the  fountain's  hand, 

In  art's  superb  device, 
Chained  in  marble  by  sylvan  band 

With  the  chill  of  imprisoned  ice. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  91 


O  mountain  rill !  mountain  song  flowing  free  ! 

Despise  not  thy  birthright  again, 
If  throngs  do  not  flock  to  be  soothed  by  thee, 

Bless  the  wanderer  now  and  then. 


A  PICTURE. 

The  old  First  New  England  Cavalry 

In  line  of  battle  stood, 
At  the  base  of  a  hill  *  whose  rounded  top 

Was  crowned  with  a  crest  of  wood,  — 
Crowned  with  a  crest  of  hidden  steel 

And  a  band  f  of  rebel  gray, 
While  batteries,  masked  and  unmenacing, 

In  treacherous  silence  lay  ; 

But  "  boot  and  saddle  "  has  sounded, 

And  they  must  charge  the  wood 
Over  that  fateful  grassy  slope  — 

Those  strong  steeds,  stanch  and  good. 
"  Charge  !  "  flares  the  bugle,  — 

And  the  blue  line  sweeps  away 
To  where  the  storm  of  hurtling  lead 

In  waiting  silence  lay. 

The  banner,  unfurled,  flies  forward ; 

The  spurs  touch  bleeding  flanks, 
While  loyal  blood  is  boiling 

All  along  the  rushing  ranks. 
Like  a  living  thing  that  splendid  line 

Sweeps  up  and  up  the  hill ; 
But  the  wood  that  crowns  the  summit 

Is  with  boding  silence  still. 

*  Cedar  Mountain.  f  "  Stonewall's  "  forces,  masked. 


92  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

A  single  gun  !  a  crown  of  flame 

Encircles  the  brow  of  the  hill, 
And  the  batteries'  hidden  menace 

Belches  forth  its  deadly  will. 
The  air  is  alive  with  bullets'  hiss  ;  — 

O  God,  see  the  blue  forms  fall ! 
A  moment  more  of  a  storm  like  this 

And  the  ground  must  cover  all ! 

No  recall  sounded  the  bugle, 

But  the  rent  line  wavered,  fled, 
Tearing  over  that  fateful  slope, 

Now  covered  with  dying  and  dead. 
A  handful  flying  headlong  down 

Away  from  the  rebel  shout ;  — 
Going  in  a  fiill  battalion, 

But  barely  a  squad  came  out. 

The  faithful  bugle  call  rallies  them  ! 

They  are  forming  in  lino  again  ; 
Here  and  there  horses  fly  riderless, 

Here  and  there  crouching  men. 
But  see  !  down  the  slope  comes  tearing,  — 

A  horseman  ?     No  !  a  horse  ; 
Hushing  straight  down  to  the  forming  line, 

Leaping  over  the  dead  in  his  course. 

A  lone  white  horse,  with  flowing  mane 

And  nostril  distended  wide, 
His  red  blood  pouring  with  every  leap 

Down  over  his  milk-white  side  ! 
He  reaches  the  line,  wheels  into  place, 

Though  flows  the  crimson  tide, 
Fronting  the  foe  with  dauntless  face,  — 

But  an  empty  saddle  must  ride. 

A  moment  he  stood,  and  down  the  line 
A  wild  thrill  slowly  crept ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  93 

They  brushed  the  falling  tears  away, 

Nor  blushed  they  that  they  wept. 
A  moment  he  stood,  with  head  borne  high, 

With  streaming,  tremulous  flanks  ; 
Then  a  shudder  ran  through  his  royal  frame, 

And  he  fell  and  died  in  the  ranks. 

It  may  be  treason  to  tell  a  tale 

With  spirit  of  deeds  like  this  ; 
But  if  we  dare  not  tell  them  still, 

The  dead  in  their  graves  will  hiss  ! 
With  no  malice  for  the  living, 

We  come  with  uncovered  head, 
And  swear,  while  sun  and  stars  shall  shine, 

To  honor  the  loyal  dead. 


THE  SOLDIERS'  MONUMENT. 

[Read  at  the  dedication  of  the  the  Soldiers'  Monument  at  Dover,  N.H., 

Sept.  H,  1877.] 

We  were  boys  when  the  first  gun  thundered, 
And  we  waited  in  fear  and  wondered, 

With  a  vague  sense  of  evil  to  come : 
For  we  knew  not  the  meaning  of  battle, 
We  knew  not  the  musketry's  rattle, 

Nor  the  roll  of  the  wakening  drum. 

But  signs  of  strife  gathered  round  us  ; 
By  our  books  and  farms  they  found  us ; 

As  the  sick  and  the  wounded  came  back, 
Bringing  fire  to  young  hearts  of  tinder, 
What  power  on  earth  could  hinder 

A  flame  springing  swift  from  their  track  ? 


94  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Like  a  dream  the  old  scenes  rise  before  us, 
In  the  blue  the  old  banner  floats  o'er  us ; 

See,  the  blue  line  steadily  comes  ! 
They  are  gone,  leaving  fathers  and  mothers  ; 
Leaving  sisters  and  wives,  and  —  others, 

At  the  call  of  the  bugle  and  drum. 

Through  the  shadow  and  shine  of  autumn  suns 
The  war  cloud  gathered  its  blackness  dun, 

And  short  letters  came  from  the  front, 
Bringing  lists  of  the  dead  and  the  dying, 
Who,  with  heroes  of  history  vying, 

Went  down  in  the  battle's  front. 

But  what  pen  can  picture  the  gloom  of  those  years  : 
A  nation's  agony,  blood,  and  tears, 

With  graves  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
The  sad  voice  of  fate  from  executive  halls 
Trembles  with  sorrow,  but  bravely  calls 

For  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 

And  never  in  vain  that  sad  voice  calls, 
Never  in  vain  his  summons  falls, 

From  graves  with  fresh  earth  covered  o'er, 
He  sees,  through  eyes  that  are  dim  with  tears, 
The  need  at  the  end  of  three  red  years, 

Of  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 

Oh,  hang  out  your  banners  in  peace  to-day, 
Nor  blush  to  believe,  nor  fear  to  say, 

"  The  cause  was  worthy  for  which  they  died  ;" 
They  were  Liberty's  sons,  and  her  banner  fair 
May  well  float  in  the  blue  of  our  autumn  air, 

To  emblem  a  nation's  pride. 

You  may  cover  their  graves  with  marble  and  stone, 
And  blazon  their  names  from  zone  to  zone,  — 
Unless  true  to  the  truth  for  which  they  bled 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  95 

They  will  bid  you  blot  out  each  chiselled  name, 
And  blush  at  the  marble  lie  of  fame, 

And  rejoice  that  they  sleep  with  the  dead. 

Their  ensign  means  justice  to  one  and  to  all ; 
If  justice  tail  its  folds  may  fall, 

And  for  it  we  shed  no  tear ; 
Emblazon  it,  gild  it,  hang  it  high ; 
Unless  justice  triumphs  it  flaunts  a  lie,  — 

Its  defenders  sleep  not  here. 

Far  purer  than  marble,  more  lasting  than  stone, 
The  monument  where  their  deeds  are  shown,  — 

The  temple  they  proudly  reared, 
Whose  base  from  the  far  Pacific  shore 
To  the  wild  Atlantic's  ceaseless  roar 

Their  dying  vision  cheered. 

Build  that,  from  the  lakes  to  southern  sea, 
And  make  it  indeed  "  the  home  of  the  free," 

And  then  they  shall  rest  in  peace, 
And  smile  when  marble  and  granite  rise 
To  pierce  the  overhanging  slues,  — 

An  emblem  of  man's  release. 

You  may  garnish  their  graves  and  thunder  with  guns, 
But  if  you  forget  their  daughters  and  sons 

Who  suffer  as  paupers  to-day, 
You  publish  your  shame,  for  you  told  them  all, 
"  We  will  care  for  your  children  if  you  fall ;  " 

Believing  they  went  their  way. 

Believing  your  promise,  they  smiled  and  died 
With  the  soldier's  simple  faith  and  pride 

In  the  home  of  the  noble  free ; 
That  their  children  might  safely  stand  beside 
Their  graves,  and  the  spot  whereon  they  died, 

Unscathed  by  "  chivalry." 


!•»'»  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


LITTLE   BEN. 

In  sight  of  old  Katahdin 

I  sat  in  a  woodman's  camp, 
In  the  generous  glow  of  an  evening  fire,  — 

Which  was  furnace,  and  even  lamp,  — 
Listening  to  varied  stories, 

Quaintly  and  aptly  told,  — 
Some  of  them  braggart  boasting, 

Others  thrilling  and  bold. 

But  one  was  so  full  of  pathos, 

That  weird,  though  mellow  spell 
On  the  brawniest  boaster  in  the  lot 

In  curious  contrast  fell ; 
Hushing  the  tide  of  that  turbulent  mirth, 

That  boisterous  jovial  glee  ;  — 
And  as  near  as  I  can,  in  phrase  and  words, 

I  tell  as  'twas  told  to  me  : 

w  Little  Ben  was  the  child  of  a  soldier 

Who  died  in  the  Union  w;ir, 
Jest  a  little  before  poor  Mary, 

Who  the  angels  waited  for ; 
Who,  when  she  lay  a-dyiu', 

And  cryin'  for  little  Ben, 
Gave  the  boy  to  farmer  'Bijah  — 

And  the  angels  took  her  then. 


•-' 


"  Her  eyes  were  large  and  dreamy, 

The  neighbors  thought  her  queer, 
And  looked  with  a  kind  of  wonder 

On  her  face  so  pale  and  clear. 
Benny  was  frail  and  blue-eyed, 

The  same  light  in  his  eyes, 
And  he  asked  such  cur'ous  questions, 

And  made  such  strange  replies. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  97 

"  'Bijah  —  he  was  known  for  a  rough,  hard  man, 

And  never  a  tender  word 
To  a  soul  save  little  baby  Bell 

From  him  was  ever  heard. 
He  worked  his  farm  in  the  summer, 

In  the  winter,  in  the  woods ; 
His  home  was  plain  and  simple, 

And  was  scant  of  worldly  goods. 

"  With  never  a  thought  of  restin', 

Hoardin'  and  stintin'  he  saved, 
While  he  and  all  around  him 

Not  simply  worked,  but  slaved. 
So  little  Ben  grew  thinner, 

Wantin'  love  and  over-worked, 
While  'Bijah  fretted  and  scolded, 

Thinkin'  he  always  shirked. 

"  So  the  reins  his  rough  hands  tightened, 

And  he  sometimes  used  the  rod  ; 
But  the  blue  eyes  only  brightened, 

Maybe  with  thinkin'  of  God. 
So,  without  a  single  murmur, 

Or  rough  or  hasty  way, 
He  grew  paler  and  weaker  and  sadder, — 

His  little  life  wastin'  away. 

rt  One  day  in  the  dead  of  winter, 

When  the  man  to  his  work  had  gone, 
When  Bell  and  Benny  and  Nancy 

Were  left  at  home  alone, 
That  mother's  fear  fell  sudden,  — 

The  croupy  cry  they  heard,  — 
And  baby  Bell  was  a-stiflin' ; 

They  must  send  the  father  word. 

"  But  'twas  miles  away  and  winter, 
While  the  day  was  so  bitter  cold 


98  OLD   CORPORAL    POEM>. 

That  scarce  could  a  man  in  safety 
His  way  to  the  deep  woods  hold. 

But  baby  Bell  was  a-dyin', 

And  while  his  poor  heart  bled, 

The  scant-clothed  form  of  Benny 
Away  for  'Bijah  sped. 

"Bitter  and  keener  blew  the  wind, 

The  cold  more  fearful  grew, 
As  over  the  crisp  an1  frozen  snow 

His  eager  footsteps  flew. 
But  the  frost,  like  Fate,  was  pitiless, 

For  his  hands  began  to  freeze  ; 
His  feet  grew  numb  an'  painless, 

As  he  faced  the  icy  breeze. 

"But  he  prest  on  still,  though  freezin', 

Thinkin'  only  of  little  Bell, 
Till  breathless,  and  almost  lifeless, 

At 'Bijah's  feet  he  fell, 
A-pantin'  the  fearful  message 

He  had  scarce  the  breath  to  tell, 
While  the  little  hands,  white  an'  rattlin', 

Told  'Bijah  what  befell. 

"Quickly  in  snow  he  held  them  then, 

And  chafed  the  stiffen  in'  form, 
Wrappin'  around  the  slender  child 

His  thick  frock,  nice  and  warm. 
Then,  close  in  his  strong  arms  claspin'  him, 

Hurried  so  swiftly  home, 
Back  over  a  shorter  and  warmer  path 

Than  the  boy's  brave  feet  had  come. 

"  And  all  the  way  he  brought  him  along, 

Never  once  putting  him  down, 
Suddenly  lovin'  the  fragile  child 
On  whom  he  was  wont  to  frown. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  99 

The  look  on  that  little  pallid  face 

Was  enough  to  melt  a  stone, 
So  happy,  so  glad,  for  a  little  love,  — 

Jest  what  he  had  never  known. 

'  'Twas  a  strange,  new  light  in  them  blue  eyes, 

With  tears  their  lids  were  wet ; 
Fearin'  to  lose  the  love  he'd  found, 
.    He  nestled  the  closer  to  get. 
While  the  rough  man's  tears  ever  fallin'  fast 

On  his  own  and  Benny's  face, 
And  he  press'd  him  closer  to  his  heart 

And  quickened  his  swingiu'  pace. 

"Little  Bell  lived,  but  Benny,  well, 

He  better  at  first  have  died, 
For  his  little  thin  hands  were  taken  off, 

And  buried  side  by  side. 
No  one  could  be  kinder  than  'Bijah  now  ; 

But  he  said  'twas  all  in  vain 
When  he  saw  them  little  handless  arms 

Movin'  about  in  pain. 

"  And  every  blow  he  had  ever  struck 

Came  back  with  a  fearful  smart, 
While  often  that  clingin'  and  wistful  look 

Would  make  him  shudder  an'  start. 
One  day  he  could  bear  it  no  longer, 

As  he  sat  by  the  little  bed, 
So  he  told  his  heart  and  grief  to  the  boy, 

While  bitter  tears  he  shed. 

' '  If  I  had  hands,'  said  the  little  saint, 

'  I'd  wipe  them  tears  away  ; 
Stoop  lower,  and  let  me  kiss  them  off, 

Don't  sob  so,  'Bijah,  pray ! 
I  was  never  so  happy  in  all  my  life 

As  on  that  awful  day 


100  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

When  you  held  me  kindly  in  your  arms, 
A-huggin'  me  all  the  way. 

"  An'  now  that  I'm  goin'  —  I  know  it  well  — 

I  don't  want  you  to  mourn 
'Bout  anything  you  ever  said, 

Or  in  anger  ever  done  ! 
Will  you  bury  me  close  to  mother  ? 

Come  closer  —  I  —  can't  —  see  —  plain  ;  • 
And  —  hug  —  me  —  once  —  before  —  I  go  - 

I  —  shall  not  —  mind  —  the  pain  ! ' 

"  And  he  lifted  his  little  handless  arms 

Both  by  'Bijah's  face, 
While  strong  arms  held  Kim  gently 

For  his  last  and  faint  embrace. 
He  kissed  that  rough  face  soothingly, 

And  then  the  white  arms  fell, 
And  so  pleadin'  as  there  they  told  it, 

His  story  I  cannot  tell." 


A  MEMORY. 

1865— APRIL  14—1878. 

It  is  night  on  the  Appomattox,  — 

A  happy  and  joyful  night ; 
Faces  are  glad,  yet  thoughtful, 

Around  the  camp-fire  light ; 
For  Lee  has  surrendered  his  legions, 

The  day  of  strife  is  past ; 
And  on  the  retiring  tempest 

The  bow  of  peace  bends  at  last. 


OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS.  101 

But  what  is  this  ominous  message 

Trembling  over  the  wires  ? 
What  fearful  thing  sets  flashing 

Those  mystic  signal  fires  ? 
And  why  those  muttered  curses 

From  lips  that  are  not  profane? 
Why  lips  compressed  and  bleaching, 

And  the  pallor  that  speaks  of  pain  ? 

What  is  whispered  from  one  to  another 

In  an  agony  of  fear  ? 
**  The  President  .assassinated!  " 

Are  the  fearful  words  we  hear. 
Grim  fires  gleam  in  the  gloaming, 

The- pines  sigh  overhead, 
And  our  hearts  are  filled  with  horror  — 

Numb  with  nameless  dread. 

The  sun  that  shines  on  the  morrow 

•Lights  many  a  saddened  camp, 
And  hearts  heavy  in  unison 

With  the  sentry's  measured  tramp. 
Iii  suspense  we  await  the  message 

The  day  will  surely  bring.; 
The  nightmare  of  fear  hangs  over 

The  day  as  a  fateful  thing. 

The  mute  wires  tell  the  message  ; 

The  signal  flag  dips  o'erhead  ; 
The  head-quarters  flag  is  lowered,  — 

So  we  know  that  Lincoln  is  dead! 
Pent  curses  are  whispered  and  muttered 

With  a  nervous  clenching  of  hands  ; 
With  musket  at  trail  and  motionless, 

Unrebuked  the  sentry  stands. 

God  pity  the  wretch !  if  that  moment 
He  had  chanced  in  our  hands  to  fall, 


102  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

He  had  gone  unshriven  to  judgment, 
Without  coffin,  or  prayer,  or  pall. 

The  star  of  peace  that  shone  brightly 
Is  covered  with  mist  and  dim, 

The  bow  from  the  cloud  has  vanished 
Because  of  our  tears  for  him. 

O  Martyr  Emancipator ! 

Our  hands  bring  laurels  now  ; 
The  years  but  brighten  the  lustre 

Of  thine  immortal  brow. 
Oh,  hail  him  and  crown  him,  comrades  ! 

His  sad  face  smiles  on  us  still, 
And  lights  up  the  ominous  darkness 

Of  days  that  presage  ill. 

And  we  swear,  in  the  light  of  his  teaching, 

No  blunder,  or  worse,  shall  wrest 
From  the  land  or  the  race  he  ennobled 

His  priceless  and  deathless  bequest. 
His  foes  may  exult  and  triumph, 

Plan  plunder  or  treason  still, 
They  must  learn,  in  Union  and  Liberty 

Alone  abide  peace  and  good-will. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Rear  the  white  marble  shaft  solemnly  over  them  ; 
Scatter  sweet  spring  blossoms  tenderly  over  them  ; 
Thunder  of  cannon  no  more  shall  awaken  them,  — 
In  glory  and  fame  the  grave  hath  taken  them. 

Your  tears  and  your  sighs  even  cannot  revive  them, 

Nor  sneers  of  foes  of  glory  deprive  them  ;  — 

As  firm  as  this  granite  their  loyal  devotion, 

As  pure  as  this  marble  their  hearts'  warm  devotion. 


OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS.  103 

Tear  off  the  crape  from  your  bright  silken  banners  ! 
Rend  the  blue  air  with  your  deafening  hosannas  ! 
Bid  the  loud  bugle  with  no  dead  march  unman  us, 
But  blare  in  accord  with  these  star-spangled  banners. 

Their  sons,  not  their  sires,  to-day  weep  above  them ; 
Grief-stricken  wives  more  devotedly  love  them, 
As  we  with  deep  reverence  stand  uncovered  above  them, 
For  the  years  as  they  fly  more  gloriously  prove  them. 

Then  dash  the  swift  tear  that  courses  unbidden, 
And  smile  over  sorrow  and  griefs  canker-hidden  ;  — - 
And  swear  here,  the  sons  standing  proudly  above  them, 
That  no  threat  of  Treason  ever  shall  move  them. 

Then  tune  your  glad  strains  to  the  thunder  of  cannon, 
To  Treason's  vile  head  lay  the  patriot's  ban  on, 
And  tear  with  our  Eagle's  red  beak  and  black  talon 
The  heart  from  the  traitor,  or  brand  him  a  felon  ! 

[Written  for  the  dedication  of  the  Soldiers'  Monument,  Dover,  N.H.,  1877,  but 
"  The  Soldiers'  Monument"  written  and  read  instead.] 


CANNON,  '62-79. 

READ  AT  THE  WEIR'S  REUNION,  '79. 
'62. 

To  the  thunder  of  cannon  we  gathered 
Mid  the  screaming  of  shot  and  shell, 

And  around  us  youthful  heroes 
Like  the  leaves  of  autumn  fell ; 

Our  skies  by  the  tempest  were  darkened, 
Portentous  of  fearful  doom, 
nd  they  cast  over  youthful  fancies 
The  pall  of  a  horrible  gloom. 


104  OLD   CORPORAL    POE.Ms. 

For  the  Flag  and  the  Nation  were  menaced, 

To  be  severed,  aye,  rent  in  twain  ! 
The  dream  of  our  forefathers  threatened, 

Should  Yorktovvn's  blood  be  in  vain  ? 
Had  Washington  wasted  the  counsel 

Which  his  compatriots  heard  ? 
Should  the  sons  of  sires  who  were  heroes 

Be  no  more  to  loyalty  stirred? 

And  four  red  years  gave  answer 

With  one-fourth  of  a  million  dead  ; 
And  to-day  who  loves  his  country 

May  proudly  lift  his  head 
In  any  of  all  the  nations 

That  crowd  the  populous  earth, 
Nor  blush  for  our  starry  emblem, 

Nor  blush  for  the  land  of  our  birth. 


'79. 

And  now,  to  the  thunder  of  cannon 

We  gather  by  Northern  lake, 
To  kindle  in  peace  our  camp-fires, 

And  the  rolling  echoes  to  wake 
Over  glen  and  glade  and  mountain, 

And  along  the  peaceful  shore, 
As  erst  we  heard  them  with  meaning 

In  the  battle's  deadly  roar. 

Each  gun  that  thunders  a  welcome 

To  on i-  hero-guests  to-day, 
To  them  and  to  all  who  hear  it 

Let  its  red  tongue  leap  to  say, 
"A  nation  !  a  nation  !  a  nation  ! 

Assail,  and  I  speak  to  slay, 
And  send  shot  instead  of  welcome 

On  deadly  and  direful  way." 


OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Speak  out  then,  iron  prophet ! 

In  short,  sententious  speech 
To  the  veterans  here  assembled ; 

Bring  reminders  to  all  and  to  each 
Of  the  days  when  you  spake  against  treason 

In  such  savage  and  deadly  tongue 
That  all  who  heard  your  message 

Henceforth  its  meaning  have  known. 


ENGLAND  IN  THE   OKIENT. 

It  reads  like  a  tale  of  enchantment, 

Or  old  Arabian  Nights ; 
Like  a  scene  that  flashes  and  dazzles 

In  the  conqueror's  scenic  lights  ; 
But  Fate  stands  clear  and  undoubted, 

The  power  which  rules  the  seas 
Unfurls  her  banner  in  triumph 

In  the  Oriental  breeze. 

A  Crusade,  allied  to  commerce, 

Shall  seize  the  Holy  Land, 
And  wrest  the  holy  sepulchre 

From  the  Moslem's  bloody  hand. 
And  along  the  banks  of  Euphrates 

Shall  civilization  bloom, 
And  dispel  from  early  Eden 

The  Crescent's  night  of  gloom. 

Again  on  the  heights  of  Salem 
The  temple  of  God  may  rise, 

And  gleam,  as  of  old,  in  splendor, 
Under  Judean  skies. 


100  OLD   COIM'OIIAL    POEMS. 

And  a  God-fearing,  worshipping  people 

Unto  Zion  may  return, 
And  again  on  the  ancient  altar 

The  incense  of  worship  burn. 

What  meaneth  England's  triumph? 

And  what  her  godly  queen  ? 
Why  through  long  fateful  centuries 

Still  Hashes  her  falchion's  sheen? 
Was  it  that,  when  the  moment 

Of  a  land's  deliverance  came, 
She  then  might  stand  to  rekindle 

The  old  historic  flame  ? 

A  Christian  queen  !  the  proteetoress 

Of  Christian  subjects  there, 
Is  more  than  entered  their  hearts'  desire 

In  faith's  most  earnest  prayer. 
And  eyes  that  have  wept  in  sorrow, 

Hearts  that  were  heavy  with  tear-. 
Are  smiling  to-day  in  gladness 

Through  joy-begotten  tears. 

Why,  Disraeli,  of  Israel, 

Like  Joseph,  or  Mordecai,  stands 
Highest  and  first  in  council 

In  a  far  and  foreign  land, 
But  there  to  unfold  the  purposes, 

Unseen  of  human  eyes, 
Which  God  still  keeps  before  him 

AVhile  nations  fall  and  rise. 

And  M'hat  the  advance  of  nations 
Throughout  the  populous  world  ; 

Our  own  great  \\--.ir  for  freedom, 
( )ur  banner  in  peace  unfurled  ? 

What  mean  the  triumphs  of  science  ? 
That  we  to-day  may  stand 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS.  107 

And  read  the  fate  which  yesterday 
Brought  to  the  Holy  Land. 

India,  now  in  the  fingers 

Of  England's  royal  hand, 
And  Cyprus  the  thumb  that  encloses 

And  clasps  the  historic  land. 
Her  argosies  ride  in  triumph 

Where  the  Pharaoh's  legions  trod, 
Where  the  Red  Sea's  waves  closed  over 

The  hosts  which  fought  against  God. 

A  world-wide  dominion  and  kingdom  ! 

The  old  Israelitist  dream, 
In  which  Jehovah  is  worshipped 

As  God,  over  all  —  supreme  ! 
Does  it  wait  on  the  verge  of  fulfilment  ? 

Has  the  pride  of  the  Gentiles  come 
To  stand  in  reverent  worship 

And  rear  again  the  dome 

Which  Roman  legions  levelled? 

It  is  well  to  pause,  and  turn 
The  leaves  of  the  scroll  of  the  prophets 

Who  spake  that  man  may  learn, 
For  if  God  is  God,  and  ruler 

Of  the  old  historic  land, 
Nor  flag,  nor  sword,  shall  raise  therefor 

Without  his  guiding  hand. 


108  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 


NO    DANGER. 

"  Hush,  Grace  !  the  baby'll  be  better  ; 

The  doctor  told  me  so. 
I'll  not  be  out  late,  surely  ; 

I  promised,  or  would  not  go." 
His  form  was  erect  and  manly, 

His  glance  was  steady  and  clear, 
Yet  the  young  wife's  heart  was  heavy 

With  a  shrinking  nameless  fear. 

Only  a  little  feverish  ; 

w  No  danger  "  —  the  doctor  said  ; 
But  ere  the  midnight  hour  had  come 

He  stood  again  by  the  bed, 
Where  the  little  one  tossed  in  anguish, 

Crying  out  for  breath  and  air ; 
And  while  the  mother  was  frantic, 

The  father  was  not  there. 

He  sits  among  boon  companions, 

Flushed  with  gaming  and  drink, 
Of  wife  and  dying  baby 

He  pauses  not  to  think. 
A  brawl,  —the lie,  — and  a  pistol  shot 

Cuts  into  his  clustering  curls, 
And  sense  and  sensation  forsake  him,  — 

The  scene  into  darkness  whirls. 

The  last  resort  in  the  baby's  case  — 

The  little  white  throat  is  bare, 
The  silver  tube  is  inserted 

To  give  the  sufferer  air. 
His  reason  clear,  his  brown  eyes  bright, 

His  lips  move  to  say  "  papa  "  — 
He  longs  for  his  father's  kiss, 

And  pleads  with  his  eyes  for  papa. 


OLD   CORPORAL,    POEMS.  109 

Heavy  steps  cease  at  the  doorway, 

•The  door-hell  loudly  rings,  — 
The  time  is  the  gray  of  morning, 

Which  this  horrible  burden  brings, 
The  little  eyes  still  pleading  for  father, 

He  wistfully  looks  again, 
His  brave  heart  longs  to  hear  his  step 

But  listens  and  waits  in  vain. 

Father  is  there  but  his  eyes  are  closed 

In  a  stunned  and  sottish  sleep, 
And  mother  alone  with  breaking  heart 

Her  vigil  of  love  must  keep. 
With  love  for  a  thousand  and  kisses  for  two, 

She  hangs  o'er  the  sufferer's  bed, 
As  speechless  lips  and  pleading  eyes 

Drift  away  to  the  dream  of  the  dead. 

He  puts  up  his  speechless  lips  for  a  kiss, 

Soothes  his  mother  with  tender  hand, 
Caressing  her  face  and  neck  like  this,  — 

His  eyes  fix  on  vacancy  —  and 
The  wounded  father's  boy  is  dead. 

The  father,  unconscious,  breathes  heavy  and  slow, 
The  mother  a  maniac  wild  — 

While  neither  their  dead  boy  know. 

The  morn  brings  the  father's  reason, 

The  night  was  a  horrible  dream, 

wife's  good-by  —  a  baby's  moan  — 

A  flash  and  a  blade's  bright  gleam. 
He  wakes  with  a  bandaged  head, 

A  shattered  and  bleeding  hand, 
While  watchful  and  sad  attendants 

Expectant  around  him  stand. 

He  calls  for  Grace  and  the  baby  — 
They  put  his  inquiries  by 


110  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Until  the  day  of  the  burial 

When  he  stands  tottering  nigh, 

While  prayer  and  funeral  rites  consign 
His  boy  to  an  early  grave, 

And  him  to  a  life  of  anguish 
From  which  no  hand  can  save. 

We  wonder  not  that  in  after  years 

He  hates  and  shuns  the  bowl, 
Which  casts  such  withering,  cursing  blight 

Upon  body  and  home  and  soul. 
When  fair  lips  say,  "  No  danger," 

Wine  flashing  in  jewelled  hands, 
Is  it  strange  that  a  pallor  comes  o'er  his  face, 

That  he  like  statue  stands  ? 

From  fire  like  this  sad  scene 

Are  Temperance  apostles  born, 
Whose  homes  and  hopes  are  blasted. 

Whose  hearts  are  bleeding  and  torn. 
May  that  devil's  lie  of  "  No  danger  " 

Rob  no  more  homes  of  bliss, 
Lead  no  more  hearts  to  the  gilded  dens 

Where  wine  serpents  crawl  and  hiss. 


TO  THE  MOWERS. 

At  morn  we  hear  the  mower's  song 

We  hear  the  scythe's  sharp  ring, 
And  thoughts  go  out  to  absent  boys, 

Who  other  weapons  swing; 
AY  ho  grasped  with  us  these  weapons  here 

But  two  short  years  ago  ; 
And  think  the  change  of  harvests  strange 

Which  you  are  called  to  now. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  1  1  1 

When  iu  the  sultry  summer's  air 

We  hear  the  insects  hum, 
Our  toil  with  yours  we  oft  compare, 

The  bees'  drone  with  the  drum  ! 
And  if  we  tire  in  toils  of  peace, 

Or  faint  in  Northern  fields, 
We  scorn  the  wish  which  seeks  relief 

While  you  such  weapons  wield. 

The  grain  is  ripening  in  the  field, 

The  harvest  groweth  brown  ; 
A  symbol  of  the  rebel  host, 

And  of  their  going  down. 
We  think  of  belching  batteries'  roar 

On  hill  and  mountain  side, 
Of  swaths  made  by  the  screeching  shell, 

Red  with  the  battle's  tide. 

We  think  of  the  sabre's  deadly  thrust, 

The  rifle's  rattling  noise, 
And,  as  we  wipe  the  tears  away, 

Ask,  "  Where  are  now  the  boys?  " 
When  from  the  stench  of  battle-field 

You  fain  would  turn  away, 
Comes  e'er  a  fragrant  memory 

Of  clover-scented  hay  ? 

Oh,  nerve  your  hearts  like  beaten  steel 

To  meet  each  coming  blow, 
And  you  shall  see  Rebellion  reel ;  — 

At  word  we  wait  to  go  ! 
Remember  we  have  heard  the  call, 

That  soon  we'll  be  with  you, 
And  grasp  the  soldier's  harvest  scythe 

To  mow  the  rebel  crew. 

AUG.,  1863. 


112  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

THE  MIDNIGHT  BUGLE. 

(A    DREAM.) 

I  heard  the  voice  of  a  bugle 

That  sounded  through  the  land, 
From  Washington  to  Oregon, 

From  Maine  to  the  Rio  Grande ; 
,     And  the  lips  that  blew  that  summons 

\Vere  bloodless,  thin,  and  white, 
And  the  spectre  vanished  in  darkness 

Of  the  weird  and  lone  midnight. 

To  the  nation's  living  sleepers 

The  sound  was  all  unheard, 
But  the  earth  over  every  soldier  dead 

At  that  strange  summons  stirred  ; 
And  forth  from  those  thousand  nameless  mounds 

By  the  broad  Potomac's  side, 
And  forth  from  those  wide  and  gastly  pits 

By  the  Rappahannock's  tide. 

And  from  under  marble  monuments 

From  over  all  the  North, 
The  hosts  of  slain  to  life  again 

From  bivouac  came  forth ; 
Arid  they  marched  in  the  midnight  silence, 

Nor  uttered  e'er  a  word  ; 
And  the  horses  slain  with  their  riders 

Were  seen,  but  were  not  heard. 

Their  tattered  battle  banners 

From  the  nation's  halls  they  took, 

And  forth  in  silence  beneath  the  stars 
Their  blackened  folds  they  shook. 

Hatless  and  shoeless,  with  pale  white  feet, 
Over  the  grasses  of  June, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  113 

They  marched  with  measured  cadence 
To  the  soul  of  martial  tune. 

Unused  and  rusty  armor 

In  haste  they  buckle  on, 
Sheathed  sword,  and  shouldered  musket, 

And  straight  away  were  gone. 
The  guns  of  blackened  batteries 

And  caissons  in  line  were  wheeled, 
And  murdered  gunners  mounted  them, 

And  rode  as  for  the  field. 

And  up  from  the  Hampton  waters 

The  sunken  Cumberland  came, 
And  there  trod  the  deck  in  silence, 

Who  sank  with  her  the  same  ; 
Straight  for  Mount  Vernon,  silently, 

Swiftly  away  she  sailed, 
Under  the  guns  of  grim  Monroe, 

Nor  answered  she  nor  hailed. 

"  Summon  them  from  their  slumber, 

The  hosts  by  treason  slain  ; 
Summon  and  bring  them  !  Every  man 

Is  needed  for  duty  again  !  " 
From  the  tomb  upon  Mount  Vernon, 

From  a  voice  we  need  not  name, 
The  order  went  forth  to  the  Nation's  dead, 

And  thither  in  ranks  they  came. 

Where  the  first  or  last  dead  commanders 

Were  riding  side  by  side, 
And  there  passed  before  them,  in  review, 

Our  heroes,  true  and  tried  ; 
There  was  whispered  to  each,  "The  Union  !  " 

From  the  nation's  sacred  grave ; 
While  "Law  forever  and  Liberty  !  " 

For  countersign  they  gave. 


114  OLD    CORPORAL    POK.MS. 


"  For  the  front !  "  and  away  towards  Washington 

Battalions  wheel  again. 
And  they  march  inspired  as  the  soul  of  one  — 

One  fourth  of  a  million  men. 
"Go  !  put  the  sword  to  treason,  — 

A  sword  that  is  swift  to  slay ; 
Sweep  the  capital  clean  of  corruption 

Before  the  light  of  day. 

"  Post  guards  at  doors  of  the  White  House, 

And  guards  at  the  Senate  Hall, 
And  guards  in  the  other  chamber, 

And  be  they  true  men,  all  ! 
To  every  hamlet  in  the  land 

A  silent  sentinel  send, 
On  every  hill,  in  every  vale. 

To  walk  till  time  shall  end  ! " 

And  ever  more  at  midnight  hour, 

Defiles  this  sad  "relief;" 
And  then  the  relieved  return  to  salute 

The  first  and  the  Martyr  Chief. 
Lo  !  mothers  and  fathers  by  those  posts 

Shall  wait  for  fallen  sons, 
And  children  watch  in  silent  awe 

For  the  gleam  of  their  spectre  guns. 
JI-XE.  1878. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  115 


FIGHT    YOUR    WAY    UP. 

Inch  by  inch  you  must  win  your  way, 

By  steady  and  sturdy  blows  ; 
Scornful  alike  of  fawning  friends 

Or  the  sneer  of  incredulous  foes. 
You  may  not  pause  to  be  lifted, 

Nor  the  nectar  of  dalliance  sup, 
But,  with  firm  and  relentless  endeavor, 

Fight  your  way  steadily  up. 

Indolence,  envy,  and  malice, 

The  open  or  covert  attack, 
Will  meet  you  at  every  footfall,  — 

Even  friends  will  hold  you  back. 
But  grim,  relentless,  and  earnest, 

From  the  shadow  into  the  light, 
If  you  rise  at  all  you  rise  because 

Of  dauntless  and  upward  fight. 

The  laurel  bay  and  crown  await, 

But  rugged  paths  and  steep 
Will  mock  all  puny  effort, 

While  fate  her  guard  doth  keep. 
Then  nerve  your  hand  with  iron  will, 

Strong  to  caress  or  smite, 
For  you  alone  reach  crown  and  bay 

By  steady  and  stalwart  fight. 


11G  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 


BIRCH    ISLAND    TROUT. 

A  prince  among  fish  is  the  trim  lake  trout, 

He  strikes  with  a  vigorous  vim  ; 
And  you  must  know  well  what  you're  about 

To  succeed  in  hooking  him. 

But  give  me  the  other  trout, 

The  trout  of  the  mountain  brook, 
That  gleams  through  the  black  pool  in  and  out, 

With  a  dash  at  your  bated  hook. 

Then  here's  to  the  trout,  be  he  little  or  big, 

In  lake  or  in  mountain  brook, 
If  he  dance  in  a  net  to  the  fisherman's  jig, 

Or  go  it  alone  on  a  hook  1 

So  yellow  and  luscious,  so  dainty  and  rare,, 

So  crisp  if  he's  done  to  a  turn ; 
Perhaps  nature  furnishes  sport  more  rare, 

But  that  we  have  yet  to  learn. 

There  may  be  a  daintier,  choicer  dish, 

For  the  palate  of  the  epicure  ; 
But  if  so,  we  have  never  heard  of  the  fish, 

Nor  shall  we  ever,  I  am  sure. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  117 


J.  WILSON  BARRON. 

Brave  Barren  !  with  blue  eye  undaunted, 

When  the  rope  tightened  round  your  neck, 
Was  there  naught  in  its  martyr  pleading 

The  murderer's  purpose  to  check  ? 
From  the  vault  where  you  faithfully  guarded 

The  trusts  of  your  humble  bank 
A  spirit  went  forth  well  worthy 

With  heroes  and  martyrs  to  rank. 

And  they  must  make  room  in  heaven 

For  a  hero  in  honor  high, 
One  more  with  the  chivalric  courage, 

At  the  post  of  duty  to  die. 
We  will  blush  less  now  for  the  faithless, 

Defaults  and  embezzlements  rife, 
And  point  with  pride  to  the  hero 

Who  defended  his  trust  with  his  life. 

And  we  will  thank  God  for  Christian  honor, 

And  courage,  that  men  though  dead 
Take  new  faith  in  human  nature 

From  your  bruised  and  wounded  head ; 
And  will  answer  the  sneer  of  the  cynic, 

Who  says,  "Every  man  has  his  price  ; 
Religion  !  a  sham  and  delusion  !  — 

A  defaulter's  deceitful  device?" 

Remember  the  brave  man,  Barron, 

WTith  sense  of  honor  so  high, 
That  guarding  the  trusted  treasure, 

He  was  ready  and  strong  to  die. 
Make  room  for  a  civic  hero, 

In  America's  temple  of  fame, 
An  untitled  New  England  baron, 

Well  worthy  the  title  to  claim. 


1 18  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Make  room  for  a  Christian  hero  ! 

A  way  \\  ith  the  libellous  lie 
That  all  are  too  callous  for  honor, 

Too  sordid  for  duty  to  die. 
Friend  Murray,  this  man  was  a  deacon, 

Let  the  world  give  the  Church  its  due, 
And  weep  with  us  who  knew  him, 

For  a  heart  strong  as  steel  and  as  true. 


DON'T  WAIT  TILL  THEY'RE  DEAD. 

If  you  have  a  neighbor  near  you 

Trying  to  lift  up  his  head, 
And  a  kind  word  or  look  will  help  him, 

I 'my,  don't  wait  till  he  is  dead 
Before  you  recognize  him, 

And  speak  your  word  of  cheer, 
But  do  it  now,  frank  and  cheerful,  — 

Do  it  while  he  is  here. 

The  world  has  been  full  of  this  waiting,  — 
.  To  the  shame  of  men  be  it  said  !  — 
Before  they  do  a  man  justice 

They  wait,  as  a  rule,  till  he's  dead. 
Withholding  all  helpful  sympathy, 

Sometimes  even  bread ; 
And  then  they  will  build  a  monument, 

After  the  toiler  is  dead. 

How  many  brave  hearts  h.-ivc  straggled, 

With  brave  and  hopeful  tread, 
Waiting  man's  tardy  justice, 

AVinning  life's  scanty  bread, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  119 

As  well  worth}'  of  bay  and  laurels, 

Struggling,  toiling  ahead, 
As  when  a  marble  monument 

Kises  to  tell  —  they  are  dead. 

Look  around  you,  then,  and  never 

Give  reason  to  have  it  said 
That  you  waited  without  recognition 

Until  your  neighbor  was  dead. 
Go  and  give  now  your  greeting, 

With  generous  words,  instead 
Of  waiting,  as  most  have  waited, 

Until  the  toiler  was  dead. 

It  may  be  a  wife  or  daughter, 

Passing,  with  patient  tread, 
The  round  of  life's  simple  duties, 

With  hearts  as  heavy  as  lead  ; 
With  hands  that  never  falter, 

With  aching  and  weary  head, 
While  waiting  your  recognition, 

Receiving  but  coldness  instead. 

It  may  be  a  husband  or  father, 

Or  brother,  whom  you  have  led, 
Who  waits  with  wistful  pleading 

For  the  word  you  have  not  said. 
Oh,  wait  no  longer !  life  passes,  — 

Its  hours  will  soon  have  sped,  — 
Delay  not  your  heart's  kind  prompting ; 

Don't  wait  till  they  are  dead. 

It  is  strange  how  soon  and  surely, 

After  death  hast claimed  his  own, 
The  world  remembers  their  virtues, 

And  speaks  what  it  has  known. 
It  seems  I  have  seen  a  smile  lurking, 

Lighting  up  a  dead  cold  face 


120.  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

In  scorn  of  the  tardy  mockery 
They  knew  to  be  taking  place. 

Go  with  niggardly  words  no  longer 

For  those  who  toil  by  your  side, 
Waiting,  without  commendation, 

Till  the  tired  toilers  have  died ; 
Meet  them  and  greet  them  frankly, 

Encourage  while  they  are  here, 
And  see  the  face  sad  and  thoughtful, 

Break  into  a  smile  of  cheer. 

Wait  not  till  hope  has  vanished, 

Till  hearts,  from  neglect,  have  bled ; 
Wait  not  till  earth  is  dreary, 

Till  gloom  gathers  overhead  ; 
Wait  not  till  feet  worn  and  weary, 

By  the  hand  of  Fate  are  led, 
Sad  and  mutely,  despairing 

Down  into  the  rest  of  the  dead ; 

Before  you  give  generous  greeting,  — 

Chasing  the  ghoul  of  fear,  — 
Before  you  witness  the  grateful 

Smile  of  faces  really  dear ; 
But  with  eyes  beaming  glad  recognition, 

Faithful,  and  frank,  and  clear, 
Dispense  to  each  toiler  around  you 

Your  helpful  and  hopeful  cheer. 


REST. 

O  hills  of  my  boyhood,  I  greet  you  again  ! 

Let  me  rest  on  your  broad,  brown  sides  ! 
Oh  take  from  my  heart  this  wearying  pain 

While  the  sun  o'er  your  round  crest  rides  ! 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  121 

Of  brown  Earth's  bosom  the  cheering  fount, 

On  you  my  head  I  rest ; 
Though  weary  footsteps  tardily  mount 

To  the  joy  of  your  nourishing  breast. 

Fold  ye,  and  hold  me  in  sheltering  arms ; 

To  your  grand  maternity  press  ; 
Till  you  soothe  from  my  heart  all  sad  alarms 

With  the  peace  of  your  blessed  caress. 

To  the  sting  of  disease  thy  healing  balm 

In  the  fulness  of  faith  I  bind  ; 
Nor  doubt  I  in  thy  restful  calm 

The  joy  of  healing  to  find. 


STARS    FOR    THE    CROWN. 

A    CHRISTMAS    LESSON. 
PREL  UDE. 

Long  hate  the  Prophets  eeased  to  warn, 

And  Faith  in  doubt  was  shrouded ; 
To  those  who  waited  for  the  morn 

The  heavens  were  darkly  clouded. 
The  valley  held  the  Lily's  bloom, 

Waiting,  wan,  and  wearied, 
Lebanon's  cedars  stood  in  gloom, 

While  the  Redeemer  tarried. 
The  glory  of  Zion  seemed  afar, 

The  night  held  not  its  gem, 
And,  while  it  waited  the  Morning  Star, 

Knew  not  its  Bethlehem. 


122  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

The  mantle  of  night  lay  on  the  plain, 

The  stars  above  shone  clear, 
In  sparkling1  welcome  of  the  strain, 

Ere  they  of  earth  could  hear. 
For  lo  !  the  lost  song  of  their  morning  joy 

Again  in  the  heavens  is  ringing  : 
Well  may  the  vaulted  heavens  employ 

The  whole  of  their  hosts  in  singing 
The  glad  anthem  of  joy  again  — 

"Peace  on  earth;  good  will  toward  men." 

Shout  the  glad  message,  ye  sons  of  God  ! 

Sing  ye  stars  with  them  ! 
Mercy  now  stays  the  chastening  rod, 

Christ  is  born  in  Bethlehem  ! 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  sang  the  angel  choirs  ; 

"  Glory  to  God  !  "  sang  the  answering  stars  ; 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  flashed  the  beacon  fires 

To  heavens  remotest  bars. 
Rang  the  grand  choral  of  joy  again, 

"Peace  on  earth ;  good  will  toward  men." 

It  seemed  sadly  in  vain  ; 

For  the  innocent  slain 

Mothers  in  sorrow  are  weeping ; 

Sharon's  opening  bud 

To  be  crushed  in  blood,  — 
With  sin,  was  in  sorrowful  keeping. 
So,  fitly  for  aye,  at  Christmas  time. 
May  we  gladden  the  heart  of  the  Child, 
For  the  first  martyrs  now,  near  the  throne  sublime. 
From  the  hand  of  a  Herod,  red  with  crime, 

Came  up  from  that  massacre  wild. 
And  He  who  escaped  till  the  day  of  his  death 
Spake  with  his  own  dear,  life-giving  breath 

The  sweetest  words  He  has  given, 
"  Suffer  the  children  to  come  unto  me, 

They  must  not  be  forbidden ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  123 

So  the  hearts  of  all  who  come  must  be, 
Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven." 

But  His  own  face  yet, 

With  His  own  blood  wet, 
Must  be  laid  in  bitterest  anguish  down  ; 
There  is  buffet  and  insult,  scourging  and  scorn, 
The  mock  robe  of  royalty,  crown  of  thorn, 
Ere  he  wears  by  right  the  Redeemer's  crown . 

He  groans  in  agony,  wild  and  aloud, 

The  thorn-torn  head  in  death  is  bowed. 

The  dumb  earth  answers  its  Maker's  moan, 

A  low  dirge  the  stars  of  the  morning  moan, 

And  shed  in  shame  their  pitying  tears, 

While  God's  mercy  mantles  this  crime  of  the  years. 

And  they  bore  Him  away  to  the  waiting  tomb ; 

The  Rose  and  the  Lily  came  not  to  bloom. 

But  the  work  of  the  Master  is  not  complete  ; 
They  must  hear  the  tread  of  those  buried  feet ; 
They  must  see  the  light  of  those  closed  eyes  ; 
From  the  gloom  of  that  death  He  must  arise. 
They  must  hear  again  the  matchless  voice, 
Ere  in  Christ,  as  "  God  with  us,"  they  fully  rejoice. 
From  Edom,  and  Bozrah,  in  garments  red, 

They  hear  from  the  door  of  the  opening  grave, 
The  sound  of  His  footsteps,  welcoming  tread, 

Who  speaks  now  in  righteousness,  mighty  to  save. 

"  Reach  hither  thy  hand  to  this  pierced  palm, 

Thrust  it  into  the  wound  of  the  Roman  spear, 
That  the  surge  of  your  sad  doubts  I  may  calm, 

And  take  from  your  hearts  your  blinding  fear. 
And  lo  !  I  am  with  you  unto  the  end ; 

Go  with  the  glad  tidings  afar, 
For  healing  and  life  the  Word  shall  attend, 
And  ye  shall  know  well  what  meaneth,  '  The  Friend 

That  is  closer  than  brothers  are.* " 


124  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

The  angels  are  waiting  with  honor  to  greet, 

Yet  hushed  is  their  triumphant  psalm, 
While  gratitude  covers  with  tears  the  feet, 

Wounded  in  bringing  to  earth  a  balm. 
Wide  are  now  swinging  the  portal  doors, 

And  the  golden  gates  are  lifted  high ; 
There  are  palms  and  crowns  on  the  golden  floors, 

For  the  Victor  Prince  is  nigh. 
Lift  higher  your  heads,  ye  glorious  gates, 
Before  you,  to  enter,  the  Conqueror  waits ; 
Higher  and  higher  till  He  enters  in, 
From  the  fearful  contest  with  death  and  sin. 

<  Vnturial  ages  have  passed  away 

Since  they  stead fastly  gazed  into  heaven  that  day, 

But  the  Master  hath  promised,  and  still  He  guides ; 

And  here  on  this  gladsome  Christmas  eve 

Into  every  heart  that  will  believe 

He  silently  enters  and  there  abides. 

THE  LESSON. 

Still  soundeth  that  mystic  minstrelsy, 

— "  Forever,  to-day,  and  yesterday," — 
And  Conscience,  the  wakeful  shepherd,  keeps 
Unwearied  vigil  while  Reason  sleeps, 
And  ever  in  times  of  the  spirit's  calm, 
With  the  power  and  spell  of  a  soothing  charm, 
If  the  soul  will  listen,  it  still  is  there, 
The  soundless  song,  on  the  midnight  air. 
And  though  those  angels  grand  and  olden, 
Who  flashed  from  portals  gemmed  and  golden, 
Have  never  repeated  to  mortal  ear 
The  song  of  that  night,  so  sweet  and  clear, — 
Though  never  again  to  mortal  eyes 
Have  given  one  gleam  of  their  angel  guise, — 
Still,  on  the  air  o'er  the  slum'brous  soul, 
Broken  strains  of  that  symphony,  silently  roll ; 


OLD    CORPOEAL    POEMS.  125 

Who  hears  their  song  on  this  sorrowing  earth, 
May  know  that  it  heralds  a  Saviour's  birth. 
Well  may  this  heraldry  banish  fears, 
For  the  cradle  of  Christ  is  the  heart  that  hears. 

To  one  listening  life  this  music  came 

With  all  its  meaning  manifold, 
Imparting  the  glow  of  a  heavenly  flame, 

And  more  of  joy  than  heart  could  hold, 
The  golden  bowl  brimming  to  overflow. 
Surely,  sorrow  need  only  know 
There  was  light  for  night, 
And  life  for  death, 
And  a  song  of  joy, 
For  sorrow's  breath ; 
A  soul  redeemed,  its  sins  forgiven, 
A  glimpse  of  the  many-mansioned  heaven, 
To  gladly  receive  the  tidings  given. 
It  seemed  to  His  early  love  that  all 
Must  yield  their  hearts  to  the  gentle  call : 
"They  perish  now,  Master,  in  pain  and  woe ;" 
And  his  prayer  was  pleading  "  Oh,  bid  me  go  !  " 

The  Lord  Christ  heard,  as  the  rapt  youth  prayed, 

A  sweet  smile  over  His  features  played ; 

On  the  low  bowed  head  of  his  weeping  child, 

His  pierced  hand  tenderly  left  a  blessing ; 

While  the  answering  voice  so  clear  and  mild, 
Thrilled,  with  joy  that  was  almost  wild, 

The  heart  that  was  dumb  with  delight,  while  pressing 

His  head  now  raised  to  that  blessed  rest, 

Which  is  known  when  pillowed  upon  His  breast 

And  he  heard  the  warning : 

"  Would  you  know 

That  the  world  has  sin  as  well  as  woe ; 

That  many  will  scorn  both  the  message  and  thee ; 

That  the  rage  of  their  madness  died  not  with  me  : 

That  still  there  is  possible  Calvary?" 


126  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

"  Thou  shalt  go,  my  son,  but  with  me  awhile, 
You  must  learn  the  spell  of  the  tempter's  wile, 
Which  is  over  the  world  and  even  thee  :  — 
I  will  teach  you  how  they  welcome  me." 
And  clasped  in  the  strength  of  encircling  arms, 

He  felt  on  his  brow  the  Saviour's  kiss, 

That  sealed  him  safe  from  the  tempter's  charms, 

•  With  a  foretaste  faint  of  heaven's  bliss. 

They  went  where  the  great  wrorld's  thoughtless  throngs 

Sped  on  to  the  grave  with  laughter  and  songs. 

There  the  Lord  himself  called,  and  called  in  vain. 

The  enthusiast  heart  was  torn  with -pain, 

As  he  said,  "  O  Master  !  why  must  they  die? 

Let  us  stand  in  their  path,  and  strive,  and  cry." 

But  swifter  and  swifter  it  sped  along ; 

For  answer,  some  strain  of  a  bacchanal  song. 

Their  effort  was  futile,  they  could  not  detain 

The  throngs  of  that  passional  pleasure  train. 

Faint  and  far  in  the  distance  their  voices  were  lost, 

And  life  was  the  price  which  this  madness  cost. 

There  were  rulers  and  statesmen  hurrying  past ; 

Not  a  look  on  the  patient  pleader  cast. 

From  this  thoughtless  revel  the  young  man  turned ; 

With  deep  indignation  his  spirit  burned ; 

He  had  heard  them  there  writh  foul  scoffing  deride, 
And  curse  writh  the  name  of  the  Crucified ; 
While  scorn  with  hate  exultingly  vied, 

Love  deeper  than  his  was  lightly  spurned. 

"  Why,  some  would  crucify  now,  I  fear, 

For  the  warning  you  spc;ik  so  kindly  here." 

But  he  meets,  as  he  listens  with  strange  surprise, 

A  keen  rebuke  in  the  low  replies. 

"  My  child,  though  scorned,  I  come  each  day, 
And  call  to  the  throngs  that  crowd  this  way. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  127 

For  anon,  when  these  fair  cheeks  are  paling, 
And  the  joy  of  this  false  lure  is  failing, 
Some  will  call  with  hopeless  wailing. 
Whenever  they  call,  I  wait  to  go  — 
And  am  only  sad  when  they  scorn  me  so." 
The  zeal  of  impatience  in  shame  is  weeping ; 
While  the  vigil  of  pity  the  Christ  is  keeping. 

"  Let  us  turn  to  those  who  have  wisely  heard, 
And  heeded  the  call  of  the  living  Word. 
Your  spirit  would  falter  and  faint,  I  fear, 
If  I  were  to  teach  you  only  here. 
My  children  have  reared  a  temple  of  praise, 
Where  they  gather  to  worship  on  holy  days." 

Gay  doors  are  closed,  the  marts  are  still, 

The  bells  of  the  Sabbath  quietly  thrill 

The  air,  and  hearts,  and  hurrying  feet, 

That  river  of  life  in  the  silent  street. 

They  have  gathered  from  many  a  home  of  prayer ; 

The  strong  and  the  aged,  the  young  and  the  fair, 

In  reverent  silence  are  waiting  there. 

The  great  organ  breathes  out  its  suppliant  strain, 
A  sound  like' .the  pleading  of  many  souls, 
As  through  the  high  arches  its  melody  rolls, 

Then  sobs  its  low  prayer  into  silence  again. 

By  prayer  the  worshipping  throng  is  led, 

The  Word,  with  reverent  heeding  read  ; 

Then  an  anthem  of  praise  whose  choral  swell, 

Voices  the  worshipping  host  so  well. 

Now,  from  lips  where  the  Master's  touch  has  stayed, 

From  heart  that  His  deathless  love  has  fired, 
From  mind  which  saving  truth  has  swayed, 

From  soul,  by  the  strength  of  faith  inspired, 
Came  the  spoken  Word  with  power  endued, 
By  the  blood  of  the  Crucified  deeply  imbued. 


128  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Even  while  He  plead  there  were  answering  sighs, 
And  tears  were  falling  from  soulful  eyes. 
They  were  tired  with  the  joy  the  Saviour  sends, 
When  the  worshipper  low  in  penitence  bends. 

The  heart  of  the  young  disciple  was  filled 

With  an  ecstatic  longing  and  fen* or  thrilled, 

As  anew  for  the  work  of  his  life  he  burned ; 

And.  again  to  Him  who  had  led  him  there  he  turned. 

While  his  heart  and  features  were  all  aglow, 

For  this  must  gladden  the  sad  one  so. 

But  the  touching  sadness  remained  the  same, 

Though  he  greeted  with  joy  Love's  bursting  flame. 

"  My  child,  I  am  glad  for  these  and  thee, 

But  through  this  worshipping  throng  I  see 

The  sad  homes  of  the  children  of  poverty. 

They  have  barred  by  these  grand  and  massive  doors 

The  steps  that  would  stain  these  muffled  floors,  — 

The  paths  which  my  earthly  footsteps  trod 

Lead  not  to  this,  though  the  house  of  God. 

And  while  I  am  glad  for  this  scene  to-day,  — 

Glad  when  the  rich  and  gifted  pray, 

My  heart  for  the  poor  and  the  humble  bleeds,  — 

The  gulf  is  wide  from  this  to  their  needs." 

The  listener  clasped  his  hands  in  prayer ; 

Into  his  heart  as  never  before 

Came  the  Spirit  that  seeks  the  humble  door. 
"  Bid  me  to  the  lowly  thy  message  bear ; 
I  will  walk  till  my  feet  be  bare  and  bleeding, 
If  thou  wilt  grant  thy  blessed  leading  !  " 
Then  over  that  face  a  new  light  stole, 
That  flooded  with  peace  that  pleading  soul ; 
He  rests,  as  John,  in  a  moment  of  bliss, 
And  his  lips  were  sealed  by  a  sacred  kiss. 

"Thus  do  I,"  He  said,  slow  and  solemnly, 
"  Consecrate  thee  to  this  blessed  ministry  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  129 

Thy  lips  thus  sealed  shall  never  plead 

In  vain  with  the  chldren  of  toil  and  need ; 

I  have  given  this  consecration  holy, 

Let  the  words  of  thy  mouth  be  pure  and  lowly ;  — 

Even  now  I  will  lead  you  to  win  the  first  gem 

With  which  I  will  fill  your  diadem." 

Past  stately  abodes  of  plenty,  of  pride, 

Where  were  ringingthe  sounds  of  Christmas  cheer,  — 
For  the  morrow  would  bring  that  a  day  so  dear,  — 

Wondering  he  followed  the  steps  of  his  guide, 

To  a  place  that  wronged  the  name  of  home  ; 

To  the  depths  for  priceless  pearls  they  come. 

A  worn  mother  watches  a  fluttering  breath, 

O'er  her  pale  infant  struggling  with  death. 

The  breath  of  the  drinker  has  left  its  blight, 

And  banished  the  lustre  of  Love's  quiet  light. 

A  face,  full  of  longing,  so  shrunken  and  pale, 

As  no  words  can  tell,  told  the  sorrowful  tale ; 

There  was  no  food  nor  warmth  for  the  dying  child 

Whose  piteous  wail  was  driving  her  wild. 

LTnconscious  the  while  in  a  sottish  sleep 

Lay  the  woman's  protector, — "To  cherish  and  keep." 

How  vain  that  sacred  nuptial  vow 

Seemed  to  that  wronged  woman  now. 

The  only  comfort  in  this  her  grief, 

This  drunken  slumber  was  real  relief. 

In  vain  the  aid  so  kindly  brought  — 

The  light,  the  warmth  and  nursing — were  naught 

To  stay  the  destroyer.     The  child  was  dead  ! 

In  mercy,  soon  from  its  misery  sped. 

One  thought  of  the  day  of  betrothal  to  him 

Now  unconscious,  and  all  grew  dim  ;  — 

For  pale  and  still  as  her  dead  child  there, 
The  mother  fell  back  in  a  swoon  of  despair ; 
But  the  spell  on  the  stupid  sleeper  is  past, 
From  a  base  debauch,  awake  at  last, 


130  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

To  behold  the  wreck  his  life  had  wrought, 

To  be  by  this  fearful  ruin  taught. 

For  a  moment  he  sat  in  silence  there,  — 

He  had  known  her  when  youn<:  and  .saintly  fair, 

And  had  loved  her  long  and  loved  her  well, 

Till  held  in  the  chains  of  that  demon  spell,  — 

Back  to  those  bright  and  happy  years, 

His  conscience  scourged;  with  remorseful  tears 

He  plead  for  one  look,  one  answering  word, 

Till  the  thoughtful  strangers  turned  away, 

Thinking  God  and  conscience  wiser  than  they. 

Her  closed  eyes  opened,  unrebuking  and  mild, 

They  lingered  a  moment  on  father  and  child, 

Then  closed  amid  such  a  pallor  of  woe, 

As  only  the  patient,  heart-broken  know. 

"My  God  !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  now  earnest  man. 

And  he  spake  as  only  the  fervid  can  ; 

"And  here  by  the  side  of  my  dead,  I  swear 

To  follow  no  more  this  path  of  despair." 

But  the  "Man  of  Sorrows,"  who  has  watched  the  fears 

Of  eighteen  hundred  circling  yea rs 

To  enter  this  life,  is  waiting  here  ; 

His  locks  were  white  with  the  cares  he  bore, 
The  dews  of  night  had  sprinkled  them  o'er ; 
His  kind  hand  knocked  at  the  closed  door 
Of.  the  strong  man's  heart  —  unknown,  and  so  near. 
"With  earnest  pleading,  and  tender  tone, 
While  sorrow  is  reaping  what  sin  has  sown, 
He  says  to  the  heart  with  agony  full, 
"Though  as  scarlet  now,  it  shall  be  as  wool. 
Long,  so  long  ere  this  sorrowful  day 
I  sought,  and  in  scorn  you  turned  away ; 
But  now,  my  sadly  en-ing  son, 
Despite  the  wrong  you  have  madly  done, 
I  love,  and  would  save  you  from  your  sin  ; 
Let  me  into  your  heart.     Oh,  let  me  in  ! "' 


OLD    CORPOEAL    POEMS.  131 

One  long,  fierce  struggle  with  self  and  pride,  — 
The  spell  is  broken,  —  the  will  is  bowed, 

And  the  tender  arms  of  the  Crucified 

Clasp  that  strong  penitent,  weeping  aloud. 

The  mother's  eyes  brimmed  with  a  holy  joy  ; 

Her  torn  heart  throbbed  with  a  blissful  pain 
As  she  lifted  her  thought  in  thanks  again, 

For  that  angel  of  mercy,  — her  dear  dead  boy. 

The  hours  had  sped,  and  midnight  morn, 

From  the  hours  of  Christmas  eve  had  come ; 

And  lo  !  again  was  Jesus  born, 

In  one  more  heart  in  a  humble  home. 

From  the  blessed  glow  of  that  heavenly  light 
The  disciple  went  forth  to  a  storm-torn  night ; 
Swiftly  aslant  through  the  silent  street 
The  cold  wind  blew  the  stinging  sleet ; 
But  he  heeded  it  not,  for  there  by  his  side 
Was  the  silent  step  of  the  Crucified. 
And  the  calm  delight  in  the  Master's  eyes 
Filled  his  soul  with  glad  surprise. 

"Thy  sorrow,  thy  joy,  thou  knowest  now  ; 
With  this  first  star  I  crown  thy  brow." 


132  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 


ON  AN  INVITATION  TO  WRITE. 

The  fire  that  burns  and  brightens 

May  not  be  kindled  at  will, 
It  burneth  hot,  unasked,  unsought, 

When  the  tongue  is  mute  and  still. 
From  sights  and  sounds  we  stumble  on, 

From  thorns  that  tear  the  heart ;  — 
We  smite  when  the  iron  is  white  with  heat ; 
This  is  the  poet's  art. 

It  can't  be  run  off  by  the  yard,  man, 

We  don't  run  it  off  by  the  yard  ; 
He  who  can  has  no  claim  of  poet, 
He  is  only  a  calico  bard. 

He  who  says  we  feel  not  our  fancies,  — 
That  fancy  which  paints  the  page,  — 
Is  cool,  and  stirs  not,  nor  trembles 

With  things  of  which  we  rage  ; 
Knows  not  of  the  thorns  that  tear  us, 

Naught  of  our  hours  of  pain, 
Nor  of  the  laughter  which  shakes  us 
When  satire's  page  we  stain. 

It  can't  be  rim  off  by  the  yard,  man, 

We  don't  run  it  off  by  the  yard  ; 
He  who  can  has  no  claim  ot  poet, 
He  is  only  a  calico  banl. 

When  fire  unseen  is  kindled 

Our  own  hearts  throb  and  bleed ; 
Or  satire  grim. point  to  the  hymn 

We  sing  from  our  own  heart's  need. 
We  sing  on,  though  no  one  listens, 

We  sing  though  no  one  cares  ; 
Glad  when  the  reader's  eye  glistens, 

Or  a  smile  some  sad  face  wears. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  133 

It  can't  be  run  off  by  the  yard,  man, 
We  don't  run  it  off  by  the  yard  ; 

He  who  can  has  no  claim  of  poet, 
He  is  only  a  calico  bard. 

So,  ask  of  me  not  a  measure, 

Set  me  no  stilted  task  ; 
You  know  not  the  way  of  our  fancies, 

You  know  not  what  you  ask. 
True  songs  are  not  made  to  order, 

They're  born,  they  are  not  made  ; 
They  run  not  in  grooves  of  traffic  ;  — 
Poetry  isn't  a  trade. 

It  can't  be  run  off  by  the  yard,  man, 

We  don't  run  it  off  by  the  yard  ; 
He  who  can  has  no  claim  of  poet, 
He  is  only  a  calico  bard. 

The  poet  must  be  a  creator, 

Or  paint  such  scenes  as  he  sees  ; 
Or  pierce  with  rhythmic  satire,  — 

He  writes  not  alone  to  please. 
But  when,  with  tears  or  laughter, 
You  greet  what  we  send  to  you. 
You  know  we  drink  of  waters 

Whose  source  you  may  not  view. 
It  can't  be  run  off  b}^  the  yard,  man, 

We  don't  run  it  off  by  the  yard  ; 
He  who  can  has  no  claim  of  poet, 
He  is  only  a  calico  bard. 


134  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 


MEMORIAL   HYMX. 

We  wait  now  with  weeping, 

Where  heroes  brave  are  sleeping, 

Who  live  in  song  and  story, 

And  deeds  of  fadeless  glory. 

Though  dead  they  live,  to  memory  dear, 
The  nation's  dead  are  resting  here. 

A  wreath  for  brows  immortal, 

We  twine  around  death's  portal, 

And  leave  it  here  above  them, 

To  show  tluit  still  we  love  them  : 

Though  dead  they  live,  to  memory  dear, 
The  nation's  dead  are  resting  here. 

The  past  comes  up  before  us,  — 

Our  battle  flag  is  o'er  us  : 

The  battle  call  is  sounding, 

And  men  to  death  are  bounding ; 

Though  dead  they  live,  to  memory  dear, 
The  nation's  dead  are  resting  here. 

In  peace  sublime  above  us, 

Unseen  they  wait  and  love  us  ; 

And  there  we  hope  to  meet  them  ; 

In  heaven's  peace  to  greet  them ; 

Though  dead  they  live,  to  memory  dear, 
The  nation's  dead  are  resting  here. 


OLD    CORPOKAL    POEMS.  135 


THE  BURNING  VILLAGE. 

[Written  on  the  Farming-ton  fire,  Feb.,  1875.      Printed  for  citizens,  and  read  at 
dedication  of  new  Congregational  Church.] 

Startled  from  sleep,  you  woke  to  dream 
What  seems  to  you  yet  a  frightful  dream  ; 
The  clang  of  the  bell 

Came  down  through  the  night, 
In  terror  to  tell 

Its  tale  of  affright, 
By  the  startling  glare  and  gleam 
Of  billows  of  leaping  light. 

And  there  alone  the  sentinel  spire 

Flashed  forth  to  view  from  a  sea  of  fire  ; 
And  the  tone  of  the  bell, 

Like  a  human  tone, 
Had  its  tale  to  tell, 

With  a  shriek  and  groan, 
Like  an  impotent  tierce  desire 
Pulsed  forth  from  a  heart  of  stone. 

The  startled  multitude  stood  appalled, 

With  hands  and  hearts  in  fear  enthralled ; 
And  the  gilded  vane, 

In  wild  alarm, 
Trembled  with  pain, 

From  fear  of  h;irm, 

While  the  bell  still  clamored  and  called 
For  help  from  a  powerless  arm. 

Higher  and  higher  the  tongues  of  fire 
Leapt  up  and  crept  up  roof  and  spire, 
Till  the  stars  of  heaven, 
And  the  red  fire  stars, 


136  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Seemed  mingled  and  driven  ;  . 

And  fiery  bars 

Were  hurled  by  the  wind's  fierce  ire, 
Till  they  floated,  far  up,  like  stars. 

In  an  hour  the  blistering  breath  passed  by, 
And  under  a  midnight  arctic  sky, 
In  place  of  your  temple 

Was  left  alone 
But  ashes  trampled 

And  crumbling  stone, 
And  tears  you  might  well  be  blinded  by, 
And  the  homeless  worshippers'  moan. 

A  year  has  fled  since  that  night  of  fear, 
And  temple  and  turret  are  builded  here  ; 
Temple  and  tower 

And  roof  and  wall ; 
A  bell  tells  the  hour 
From  turret  tall  ; 

It  stands  complete  the  toil  of  a  year, 
To  sound  forth  the  Master's  call. 

And  now,  as  you  gather  here  to-day, 

To  hallow  the  altar  where  men  shall  pray, 
Bring  only  your  pure  gold, 

Purged  as  by  fire  ; 
Let  no  heart  here  hold 

An  unhallowed  desire  ; 
Bring  self  to  the  altar,  and  slay; 
Then  call  for  the  heavenly  fire. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  137 


WINGS  OF  FLAME. 

[Delivered  at  dedication  of  the  Congregational  Church,  Pittsfield,  N.H.,  Feb. 
12,  1877,  on  the  site  of  one  burned  one  year  before  iu  a  fearful  storin.] 

Under  the  scowl  of  a  winter  sky, 
A  wild  snow-tempest  roaring  by, 

A  faint  flame  creeps,  , 

With  smothered  sign, 
While  the  village  sleeps, 

With  danger  nigh ; 
Slowly  at  midnight  the  menace  creeps 
While  the  village,  unconscious  of  danger,  sleeps. 

Steady  and  slow,  with  flickering  glow, 
Striking  a  key-note  sure  and  low, 
The  fire-fiend  sings 

While  beating  slow 
His  mottled  wings, 

That  none  may  know 
The  terrible  tone  of  the  glee  he  sings, 
Nor  the  fearful  sweep  of  his  ghastly  wings. 

But  he  breaks  his  chains  and  up,  away  ! 
No  longer  imprisoned  will  tamely  stay, 
With  open  beak 
Upon  his  prey 
Will  fall  and  shriek 

As  up  and  away 

With  gleaming  talon  and  bloody  beak 
To  circle  and  soar  with  maddening  shriek. 

And  now  on  the  air  the  dire  of  bells, 
Whose  startled  tone  the  danger  tells, 
With  clang  and  roar 


The  summons  swells, 

saling  out  o'er 

The  snow-clad  dells, 


138  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Smiting  the  red  flames'  gathering  roar, 
Sounding  loud  summons  o'er  and  o'er. 

No  longer  the  peaceful  village  sleeps, 
No  longer  the  flame  of  the  burning  creeps, 
But  swift  lights  flash, 
The  red  light  leaps, 
While  timbers  cm^li 

And  weakness  weeps  ; 
And  into  the  storm  with  roar  and  crash, 
Red  wings  circle  and  soar  and  flash. 

So,  into  the  night  an  inverted  hell 
Kindled  its  lurid  burnings  well ; 
lied  gleams  arose 

As  thick  clouds  fell 
To  mingle  and  close 
In  the  mimic  hell, 

The  gloom  of  these  disclosed  by  those, 
As  the  steady  gleam  of  the  burning  rose. 

Steadily  beating  the  mad  bell  rings  ; 
The  tall  tower  trembles,  sways  and  swings  : 
Above,  the  snow 

Now  melts  and  clings, 
While  mad  below 

The  hoarse  shout  sings  ; 
Thick  in  the  heavens  the  clouds  of  snow, 
Reflecting  the  horror  that  rolls  below . 

There  are  billows  of  flame,  they  rush  and  roar 
And  crackle  and  leap  till  the  heavens  o'er 
Flash  grimly  back 

The  horrid  glow, 
The  ruin  and  rack 

That  glare  below, 

The  swift  storm  squadrons  druse  and  black 
Reflecting  the  blood-red  gleaming  back. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  139 

The  clinging  lips  of  the  furious  fire 
With  passionate,  fierce,  and  fell  desire 
Are  sated  soon ; 

The  passion  dire 
Is  bated  soon ; 

A  bridal  pyre ! 

And  the  ravished  village  is  left  alone 
To  sigh  and  weep  with  piteous  moan. 

Temple  and  mart  and  dwelling  gone, 
Blackened  cinders  on  snow-white  lawn  ; 
And  night  shuts  down 

Till  the  coming  dawn 
Reveals  the  town 

To  the  moiTOw's  morn, 
The  gloom  victorious  settles  down 
Over  a  blackened  and  ravished  town. 

But  the  days  of  a  year  fly  on  their  round 
With  sign  of  builders  on  the  ground ; 
The  structure  grows, 

Mid  hammers'  sound, 
To  rival  those 

The  red  flames  found, 
More  stately  and  grander  far  than  those 
Which  fell  in  the  burning  fearful  throes. 

Turret  and  spire  and  roof  and  wall, 
Chancel  and  organ,  chapel,  all 
Await  to-day 

The  Master's  call ; 
We  bow  and  pray 
As  low  we  fall, 

Accept  Thou  what  we  build  to-day ; 
Take,  and  take  never  Thy  grace  away. 


EARLY  POEMS. 


REPLY  OF  NIGHT. 

What,  O  Night !  canst  thou  discover, 

In  thy  wide  extended  reign  ? 
What  that  would  delight  thee  ever  ;  — 

What  that  thou  wouldst  not  uncover, 
Seest  thou  'neath  thy  sweeping  train  ? 

I  see,  the  voice  of  Night  replies, 

The  smiling  lands  of  sunny  skies  ; 

The  frigid  North  with  icy  seas, 

Where  chill  of  death  floats  on  the  breeze  ; 

I  see  broad  mountains,  hill,  and  vale, 

From  whence  floats  up  the  trusting  tale, 

That  riseth  e'er  from  .the  whispering  pine, 

And  the  low,  sweet  tone  of  the  clinging  vine  ; 

The  musical,  murmuring  waterfall, 

The  tremulous  notes  of  the  night  birds'  call ; 

Scenes  and  sounds  that  speak  like  these, 

Breathe  of  a  spirit  that  can  but  please. 

There  is  much,  however,  inquiring  bard, 
In  the  beauty  of  night  that  man  hath  marred  ; 
There  is  much  that  is  sad  and  wildly  strange 
Ever  within  my  vision's  range>  — 

Come  float  with  me  o'er  the  busy  street, 
Where  echoes  still  the  tramp  of  feet ;  — 
There  are  footfalls  firm  upon  that  pave, 
And  those  whose  tottering  speaks  of  the  grave  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  141 

There  are  eyes  that  sparkle  tmdimmed  by  tears, 

And  hearts  that  ache  with  the  load  of  years  ; 

Virtue  unstained  in  its  fountain  clear, 

And  vice  in  its  sickening  loathsome  leer,          » 

Thoughts  like  a  canker  that  eat  the  heart, 

From  which  with  a  shudder  of  fear  you  start ; 

Mortal,  I  would  that  that  hurrying  crowd 

Just  for  a  moment  would  think  aloud, 

That  you  for  a  moment  might  see  and  know 

That  unseen  current's  under-flow  ; 

Alas  !  it  is  not  for  mortal  ear, 

The  pulsing,  throbbings  of  thought  to  hear. 

Oh,  where  are  the  houses  to  which  this  throng, 
These  lives,  these  thinking  souls  belong? 
What  joy,  and,  too,  what  nameless  care, 
As  guests  are  with  the  inmates  there  ! 
This  scene  is  but  one  of  those  wonders  vast 
O'er  which  the  folds  of  my  robe  are  cast ; 
They  lie  unnumbered  all  over  your  land,  — 
On  mountain  side,  by  ocean's  strand; 
And  mingled  murmur  borne  on  the  breeze 
Is  floating  forever  up  from  these. 

There  are  sounds  of  wailing  that  strike  the  ear ; 
The  stifled  groan,  the  shriek  of  fear  ; 
Sounds  that  float  out  o'er  the  air, 
Speaking  of  sin  and  deep  despair  ; 
And  mingled  with  these  are  sounds  of  mirth, 
A  medley  strange  comes  up  from  earth. 
List !  there's  a  low  and  tremulous  voice  — 
Angels  in  heaven  will  now  rejoice  ! 
'Tis  a  young  mother's  faith  that  in  that  tone 
Presses  her  first-born  up  to  the  throne. 
Another  low  voice  !  it  cometh  from  where 
A  child  is  breathing  its  evening  prayer ; 
Sweetly  solemn,  touchingly  mild, 
Riseth  the  prayer  of  the  trusting  child, 


142  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Speaking  of  childish  wants  and  fears, 
With  a  faith  that  shanieth  riper  years. 
Angels  are  chanting  in  heavenly  lays, 
"Hope  for  earth,  for  childhood  prays  !" 

A  tableau  strange  this  earth  appears, 
Mingling  mirth,  and  woe,  and  prayers. 
Mortal,  I  cannot  describe  it  to  you, 
The  whole  a  finite  may  never  view  1 


MORNING    IN    SPRING-TIME. 

In  the  east  the  coming  sunlight, 
Struggling,  with  the  shades  receding, 
l>y  the  pale  light's  quiet  coming, 
PA  the  songster's  timid  warbling. 
We  may  know  that  shade  and  darkness 
IVv  the  morn  are  being  vanquished. 
Slowly,  though,  the  night  depart eth, 
( hvning  that  its  reign  is  routed, 
Hiding  from  the  coming  twilight 
To  the  westward  of  the  mountain-. 
And  amid  the  thick-boughed  forests. 

Now  the  morning  brightness  stretcheth 
Far  away  unto  the  westward  ; 
And  the  shades  which  slowly  left  us 
Lie  along  the  far  horizon, 
Fading,  sinking,  slowly  melting, 
Blending  with  the  conquering  twilight. 

All  the  stars  have  sought  their  couches, 
Save  the  few  that  twinkle  faintly 
Through  the  dim  dissolving  shadows. 
In  the  east  the  rays  shoot  upward, 
(iiving  by  their  sparry  splendor, 
To  the  scene  a  massive  glory. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  1  1-3 

Where  is  now  the  unseen  centre 

From  which  such  a  flood  proceedeth  ? 

What  great  power  from  out  that  centre 

Forces  all  that  blazing  brightness, 

So  that  all  the  stars  attendant 

Whirl  forever  on  their  courses, 

Bathed  in  this  surrounding  grandeur, 

Smiling  back  their  joyous  praises 

To  that  never-failing  fountain 

Which  has  clothed  their  forms  with  beauty, 

Which  has  life  and  light  imparted  ? 

While  we  thus  have  questioned,  musing; 
Lo  !  the  moon  has  been  advancing, 
Look  along  the.  bright  horizon  ; 
That  round  hill  with  wood-crowned  summit ! 
Look  ye  now  around  the  branches, 
Where  the  moon's  last  shadow  perished  — 
How  those  strong  trees  seem  to  tremble  ! 
How  those  branchlets  seem  dissolving  ! 
There  the  dazzling  arching  surface 
Rising  slowly,  grandly  o'er  them, 
Leaving  all  unharmed  the  forest, 
And  unmelted  the  round  mountain  ! 
Close  your  eyes,  — you  still  behold  it 
With  a  round  screen  o'er  its  surface, 
Keeping  back  the  burning  brightness, 
Save  around  the  glistening  edges ; 
Yes,  you  see  it ;  still  you  see  it ; 
With  its  trembling  pendant  curtain, 
Rising,  rising,  slowly  rising  ! 

There  behold  the  fiery  centre, 
Out  from  which  such  power  proceedeth  !  — 
Fierce  it  falls  on  winter's  workings, 

O     ' 

And  undoes  its  frost  formations  : 
First  it  bids  the  cold  snow  vanish, 
Then  unchains  the  flowing  river  ; 
Next  the  singing  streams  and  brooklets  ; 


144  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Then  the  long-imprisoned  waters 
Of  the  lake  beside  the  mountain. 
Soon  all  things  of  growing  nature, 
Too,  shall  feel  these  potent  forces  ; 
And  the  sleeping  powers  of  nature 
Clothe  the  earth  with  growing  beauty. 
And  all  living  moving  creatures. 
Too,  shall  feel  his  mystic  presence, 
While  they  joy  in  life  and  vigor. 

Whence,  O  Sun  !  hast  thou  thy  power?  — 
Whence  the  beauty  of  this  morning?  — 
None  but  God  could  e'er  have  given 
Us  this  morning's  beauteous  vision, 
Or  these  rapturous  thoughts  of  ours, 
With  the  feelings  which  they  gave  us. 
O  my  God  !  I  thank  thee  for  it,  — 
For  this  vision  of  the  morning, 
On  my  soul  it  is  engraven ; 
It  is  mine,  —  'tis  mine  forever  ! 


THE    BAPTISM    OF    BLOOD. 

It  was  poured  upon  Antietam 

Until  nature  gave  a  blush, 
Where  her  features,  bathed  in  battle's  tide, 

Reposed  in  evening's  hush. 

It  was  poured  on  red  Shiloh, 

In  terror's  crimson  flow, 
As  if  nature  caught  the  parting  ray 

Of  sunset's  crimson  glow  ; 

By  the  Rappahannock's  winding  shore, 
Where  the  burning  city's  smoke 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  145 

Hung  o'er  the  field,  as  if  to  shield 
With  battle's  cloudy  cloak  ; 

Till  darkness  came  with  tempest  clouds, 

As  a  pall  for  thousands  dead ; 
As  if  the  skies  with  tears  would  fain 

Wash  out  the  battle's  red. 

And  its  rill  adown  the  ramparts  ran, 
On  Vicksburg's  blood-bought  forts  ; 

And  still  the  tide  of  horror  pours 
From  James'  open  courts. 

For  lo  !  again,  on  Northern  soil, 

The  purple  tide  hath  ran  ; 
A  graveyard  fitting  altar  was 

For  the  sacrifice  of  man. 

Even  pallid  demons  pause  for  joy, 

In  their  imprisoned  realms, 
To  see  the  tide  of  wrath  disgorged, 

Of  mortals  whom  it  whelms. 

O  God  !  how  long  must  this  carnage  come  ? 

How  long  this  crimson  flood  ? 
How  long  must  the  noblest  dare  and  die  ?  — 

Let  tears  do  the  work  of  blood  I 

Look  on  the  thousand  bleeding  hearts, 

Which  in  sorrow  now  are  calmed. 
That  wait  unmurmuring  at  thy  throne, 

With  faith  in  tears  embalmed  ! 

Look  on  the  widow  left  to  weep, 

And  on  the  sireless  child, 
Remembering  promises  to  such, 

Which  in  thy  word  have  smiled  ! 


146  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Look  on  thy  Church  which  drifteth 
To  a  sin-cursed,  ruined  home  ! 

Look,  and  for  thine  own  name's  sake 
Avert  this  awful  doom  ! 

Lord,  suffer  us  to  plead  with  thee  ; 

We  will  bow  before  thy  throne  ; 
And  while  we  pray,  and  plead,  we  say, 

O  God,  thy  will  be  done  ! 


OUR   COUNTRY'S    CALL. 

Our  nation  had  slumbered,  forgetful  of  fears, 
As  she  felt  the  strong  pulsing  of  peace-prospered  years  : 
But  wanned  in  our  bosom,  and  grown  by  our  side, 
A  foe  has  been  nourished  with  brotherly  pride. 

But  the  mask  is  now  dropped  —  his  visage  is  bare, 
And  phoenix-like  Tyranny  faces  us  there  ; 
The  blow  he  has  struck,  —  first,  cold-blooded  blow, 
And  Freedom  confronteth  her  eternal  foe. 

The  message  :  "  To  Arms  !  "  by  heroes  is  heard  ; 
The  patriot  blood  of  the  country  is  stirred  — 
Then  rise,  sons  of  freemen,  and  grapple  your  cause, 
Show  tyrants  the  vigor  of  Liberty's  laws  ! 

Bring  forth  to  the  light  our  forefathers'  arms, 

Bring,   bring  to  the  fight,   brothers,   but  bring  them  :».- 

charms ! 

The  hands  that  have  used  them  in  death  are  laid  low, 
But  the  blood  that  inspired  them  continues  to  flow. 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS.  147 

"Tis  the  life  of  our  kindred  ;  it  flushes  our  homes  ; 
Against  this  the  dark  current  of  Tyranny  comes ! 
On  their  own  brave  defenders  their  swords  have  been 

turned, 
And    our   peace-proffered   prayers   they   have    scornfully 

spurned. 

Then,  forth,  brothers,  forth  !     Speed  swift  to  the  fray  ! 
Think  not  they  are  brothers  when  freemen  they  slay  ! 
Can  Freedom  and  Tyranny  side  by  side  stand? 
Can  darkness  and  light  dwell  at  once  in  one  land? 

The  truth  flashes  o'er  us,  our  hearts  ache  with  pain, 
As  we  read,  upon  facing  facts,  "  Slay  or  be  slain  ! " 
God  pity  our  foes,  they  have  wrought  to  their  harm, 
The  tempest  is  swinging  "  the  pine  against  the  palm  !  " 


The  year  had  waned,  and  autumn  come, 
The  strife  of  the  season  had  ceased  to  hum ; 
The  pomp  of  summer  had  passed  from  view, 
And  earth  was  adorned  by  a  mellower  hue ; 
The  grand  old  aisles  of  the  wood  by  the  sea 
Taught  daily  their  lessons  of  earth  to  me  ; 
The  sea,  with  its  ever  restless  tide, 
Ebbed  and  flowed  in  solemn  pride ; 
And,  as  on  through  watery  ways  it  trod, 
Spake  of  the  unseen  hand  of  God. 

And  the  sigh  of  the  sad  waves'  ceaseless  roll 
Found  answering  echo  in  my  soul ; 
The  sigh  of  the  sea  in  my  soul  was  a  sob, 
A  heavenward  yearning  tidal  throb  ; 


148  OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

It  felt  the  attracting  power  of  Heaven, 

And  glad  the  unseen  chain  would  have  riven  ; 

Would  have  risen  above  the  binding  bar, 

The  fiat  found  in  the  words  "  Thus  far  !  " 

Ah  !  why  did  that  soul  wave  sobbing  arise  ? 

Why  sad  was  the  sea  ?    Why  sad  were  the  skies  ? 

And  what  was  the  burden  borne  up  by  that  prayer? 

What  spake  that  sigh  on  the  autumn  air? 

I  felt,  like  a  fetter,  the  silken  chain, 

Bind  into  my  heart  that  old ,  old  pain  ! 

A  soul  as  pure  as  nature's  may  be, 

Waited  and  loved  in  a  home  by  the  sea ; 

Christ  was  a  stranger,  a  dear  friend,  I, 

So  my  soul  sobbed  responsive  to  ocean's  sigh. 

Thus  sad  was  the  sea  and  sad  were  the  skies, 

Thus  did  the  tidal  prayer  arise, 

How  my  soul  would  have  seized,  were  proffered  the  power 

To  bring  waters  of  life  to  that  sea-side  flower  ! 

How  it  chafed  like  the  restless  sea  on  the  shore, 

It  struggled  and  leapt,  to  fall  back  as  before  ; 

To  feel  and  know  that  God  alone, 

Through  Christ,  for  our  sins,  though  the  least  can  atone ; 

But  like  as  the  sea  when  the  storm  has  ceased, 

My  soul  from  surging  was  soon  released  ; 

A  calm  came,  reflecting  a  light  from  above, 

That  whispered,  consolingly,  "God  is  Love." 

Though  the  tumult  were  stayed,  the  tide  throbbed  there, 

lieflectingly  rising  in  silent  prayer, 

An  answer  came  :  "  A  message  to  thee, 

Carry  Christ  to  thy  friend  in  the  home  by  the  sea." 

I  gladly  read  this  message  of  love, 

And  mingled  my  mandate  with  that  from  above. 

There  was  red  on  her  lip,  "  love-light  in  her  eye  ; " 

Her  heart  unstirred  by  the  seeker's  sigh, 

As  pure  as  any  unsaved  can  be, 

Made  laugh  and  step  ever  joyous  and  free  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  149 

But  that  red  lip  trembled,  a  swift  swelling  tear 
Spake  the  indwelling  presence  of  penitent  fear. 


The  charms  of  salvation  were  coming  to  be 
'Twined  'round  that  heart  in  the  home  by  the  sea  ; 
And  to  nature's  abundance  there  then  was  given 
The  charm  that  fitteth  the  soul  for  heaven. 
I  stand  on  the  shore,  she  stands  by  my  side, 
On  the  shore  that  is  washed  by  Eternity's  tide  ; 
List !  there's  the  low  roar  of  Eternity's  wave, 
Let  us  go  forth  together  the  sinner  to  save  ; 
What  nobler  or  holier  aim  could  there  be 
Than  carrying  Christ  to  all  homes  by  the  sea  ? 


CHANGE  THE  FIGUKES. 

Again  we  are  through  another  decade, 

Which  is  gone,  yet  we  scarcely  know  how ; 
The  figures  in  'fifty  all  are  made, 
Printed  and  folded,  away  they  are  laid, 
And  we  must  mark  'sixty  now ; 
Time  says,  "  Change  the  figures." 

What  have  the  figures  in  'fifty  seen  ? 

What  the  tales  they  have  heard  ? 
Pausing  not  once  to  notice  the  din 

Lachesis  and  Clotho  have  stirred  — 
Atropos  claims  the  figures. 

Records  impartial  these  figures  have  kept, 

And  he  who  wishes  may  read  them  ; 
Many,  in  passing  through  'fifty,  have  slept, 
Dreamed  they  were  creeping  as  on  they  swept ; 


150  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Let  us  bid  them  awake  and  heed  them, 
The  ever-changing  figures. 

Awakening  they'll  doubtingly  rub  their  eyes, 

And  ask  where  the  records  are  placed  ? 
Forgetting  that  ere  in  the  visible  skies 
The  first  coming  rays  of  light  can  arise, 
The  invisible  arc  must  be  traced, 
Forgetting  the  arc  of  figures. 

When  the  light  of  the  Northern  aurora  they  view, 

They  think  it  Aurora  the  morn  ; 
But  flickering  auroras  grow  faint  and  few, 
Then  knowing  not  whence  coineth  light  that's  true, 

They  even  look  South  for  the  morn,  — 
'Tis  wisdom  to  watch  the  figures. 

The  records  of  'sixty  are  just  begun, 
But  the  world  is  forgetting  it  fast ; 
A  moment  they  gaze  where  Clotho  has  spun, 
Then  turn  away  as  though  it  were  done, 
And  mingle  it  with  the  Past, 

Leaving  Wisdom  to  watch  the  figures. 

It  is  well  for  us  these  figures  in  life, 
That  these  same  figures  must  change  ; 

For  were  it  not  thus,  mid  the  flurry  and  strife 

With  which  our  living  ever  is  rife, 

To  forget  of  advancing  weren't  strange. 
'Tis  well  there's  change  of  "  figures." 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  151 

TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "JIM  BLUDSOE." 

BY    PLAIN    PILGPvIM. 

I've  jist  read  your  story  of  "  Banty  Tim  ;  " 
I'm  a  plain,  rough  man,  but  my  eyes  got  dim, 
And  I  never  can  thank  you  half-hearty  enough, 
Though  Tilmon's  words  was  a  leetle  too  rough. 
But  you  writ  another  Bludsoe  Jim, 
I  want  more  special  to  speak  of  him, 
In  praisin'  a  life  so  remarkable  loose, 
Aint  you  a-givin'  the  devil  a  truce? 

I  reckon  ther'  want  no  such  feller  ez  Jim 
That  you  was  paintin',  an'  made  up  him, 
And  to  my  way  of  seem',  the  picter  aint  true  ; 
But  mebby  I  take  a  one-sided  view. 
Couldn't  yer  said  yer  say,  an'  jest  as  well, 
Without  winkin'  at  things  not  fit  ter  tell? 
Won't  cheap,  dirty  fellers  consider  it  nice, 
An'  conclude  ther'  aint  enny  such  thing  ez  vice  ? 

Banty  Tim  won  me,  and  so  I  write, 

Admiration  and  praise  are  yours  by  right ; 

But  in  me  they're  mixt  with  suthen  of  pain, 

The  reason  hereby  I  hope  to  explain. 

Here's  why  I  shudder  at  Bludsoe  Jim  ; 

My  little  boy  sees  a  hero  in  him, 

And  I  fear  the  model  you  held  in  view, 

And  some  way,  Dear  Col.,  you  brag  on  him,  too. 

In  all  your  fancies  couldn't  ye  foun' 

Some  lone  Doc  Simmons,  goin'  down 

Writh  his  train,  peering  into  the  darkness  grim, 

Where  death  sat  motionless  watchin'  for  him  ? 

There's  one  to  sing  of,  no  shadder  behind, 

And  only  one  wife  for  directors  to  find. 


152  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Your  myth  has  a  meaning  that  facts  won't  uphold, 
When  the  real  Doc  goes  down  'tis  more  truthfully  told. 

I  can't  say  fluent  jest  all  that  I  mean, 

But  do  make  your  hero  jest  decently  clean, 

Don't  drag  dirt  from  the  slums  into  sight, 

To  give  it  the  halo  and  mantle  of  right. 

You've  a  right  to  some  license  in  making  a  song, 

But  he  swindles  his  genius  who  licenses  wrong  ; 

Don't  lift  up  the  evil,  to  cry  it  to  fame, 

For  the  sake  of  our  children,  don't  glorify  shame. 


THE    SOLDIEK'S  FAREWELL. 

[This  poem  was  the  last  ever  written  by  Mr.  Coan.  It  was  finished  and  sent  to 
the  "  Independent  Statesman,"  Concord,  X.H.,  about  a  week  before  his  death,  and 
was  published  just  as  his  spirit  bade  farewell  to  earth,  and  went  to  join  the  Grand 
Army  in  heaven.]  E.  J.  C. 

Once  more  in  my  arms  would  I  hold  you ; 

Once  more  feel  the  thrill  of  your  breath  ; 
Once  more  moved  to  love  would  behold  you, 

Though  I  knew  the  next  moment  were  death. 
Come  !  welcome  with  red  lips  inviting, 

Welcome  with  twining  arms; 
Hold  close,  that  your  dear  touch  inciting 

May  deepen  the  power  of  your  charms. 

Let  fear  move  you  not  to  hinder 

The  close  touch  of  clinging  kiss  ; 
Let  each  spark  of  fire  touch  tinder 

When  we  kindle  a  flame  such  as  this. 
All  fear  and  foreboding  banish 

With  abandon  well  worthy  of  bliss, 
Pause  not  to  sigh  "  It  will  vanish," 

But  deepen  with  smothering  kiss. 


OLD    COEPORAL   POEMS.  153 

Aye,  thus,  and  thus,  will  I  love  thee  ! 

Drive  not  the  delight  from  your  eyes  ! 
Look  up  thou,  for  bending  above  thee, 

My  own  to  your  yearning  replies. 
Our  tempest  was  slow  in  its  coming, 

Swiftly  sweet  is  its  rainbow  close ; 
The  thrill  of  its  joys  benumbing, 

Sits  the  grief  which  our  parting  knows. 

Let  us  float  to  the  drifting  of  dreams, 

While  the  rainbow  of  love  bends  o'er  us 
As  the  calm  light  royally  gleams 

On  the  glory  retreating  before  us. 
How  sweet  to  dream  after  tasting 

The  touch  of  loves  moistening  dew, 
While  the  bright  glow  of  love's  implanting 

On  bosom  and  face  burns  through  ! 

Let  us  turn  for  a  moment, —  forgetful 

Of  all  but  joy's  tropical  skies, 
With  no  thought  of  clouds,  gray  and  fretful, 

To  scorn  the  bright  dreams  that  arise. 
Under  arches  of  forests  olden, 

Soothed  ever  by  tropical  balms, 
When  day  has  sunset  golden 

Unstirred  by  war's  alarms. 

And  the  low  lisping  murmur  of  waters 

Kissing  ever  the  silvery  sand, 
While  naiads,  the  fay's  sea-daughters, 

Disport  in  our  dream  on  the  strand. 
But  'waken  !  once  more  behold  me  ! 

Your  eyes  are  in  dreamy  eclipse ; 
See,  close  in  my  arms  I  hold  thee, 

And  plead  the  reply  of  your  lips  ! 

Once  more  prove  thy  title  well  given, 
"  Queen  Lover,"  and  ever  to  thee, 


154  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

When  the  bolt  of  battle  hath  riven 
Our  lives,  my  thoughts  shall  flee. 

Entwine  with  arms  that  cling  ever ; 
Let  thy  red  lips  part  for  my  kiss  ; 

Thou  hast  thrilled  me  before,  but  never 
As  this  agony  tinging  our  bliss. 

But  the  summons  "  To  arms  !  "  is  sounding, 

From  love,  perchance  life,  I  must  part ; 
Soon  again  will  my  pulse  be  bounding, 

Not  as  now  from  the  warmth  of  my  heart ; 
But  clear  through  the  danger  of  battle 

Shall  corne  the  sweet  sound  of  your  sigh ; 
Through  the  sound  of  the  musketry's  rattle 

I'll  hear  it  if  fate  bids  me  die. 

From  life  and  the  joy  of  loving, 

From  all  that  men  hold  dear, 
They  went  out  their  loyalty  proving, 

Unhindered  by  joy  or  fear. 
They  sleep  well,  who  went  to  return  not ; 

And  those  who  in  peace  returned, 
Met  the  welcome  that  waited,  to  turn  not 

From  the  brave  who  that  welcome  had  earned. 


PART     III 


AHMAIDEE, 

.A.      IjYE/IC      R,  O  M -A.  IN"  O  IE  , 


REV.   LEANDER   S.   COAN. 

Author  of  "Better  in  the  Mornin',"  "England  in  the  Orient," 
"Old  Corporal  Ballads,"  etc. 


PREFACE. 


The  effort  of  American  women  to  provide  the  privileges  of 
higher  education  to  the  women  of  ancient  Haiasdani,1  known  as 
Armenia  to  us,  has  in  it  the  elements  of  Romance  that  find  fit 
ting  field  for  development  in  that  region  of  the  origin  of  the 
human  race,  and  of  its  most  tragical  and  touching  histories.  I 
have  striven  to  weave  legend  and  history  largely  into  my  story 
of  that  ancient,  once  martial,  always  beautiful  race,  whence  the 
European  families  of  nations  had  their  origin.  The  scene  of  the 
poem  proper  is  laid  in  Haiasdani  in  the  year  1G04.  The  legend 
is  supposed  to  be  related  by  a  Caucasian  girl  in  the  College  for 
Women  at  Harpoot,  to  a  young  lady  companion,  a  daughter  of 
her  instructress.  She  is  called  Ahmaidee,  for  the  heroine  of  the 
legend,  from  whom  she  is  descended.  I  have  not  the  hardihood 
to  suppose  I  have  written  a  great  lyric.  But  if  the  blending  of 
the  sober  and  tragical  elements  of  history  and  tradition  with  this 
light  fancy  I  have  woven  shall  tend  to  awaken  an  interest  in 
Ahmaidee's  race,  and  in  the  endeavor  to  provide  them  with  the 
privileges  of  a  higher  education,  some  good  may  be  accom 
plished. 

Go  forth,  fond  dream  of  that  people 

Whence  our  own  life-blood  flows ; 
Go,  sing  to  the  thoughtful  and  waken 

To  thoughts  of  these  lyric  dreams ; 
Go  forth  with  purpose  as  pure 

As  the  air  o'er  Caucasus  snows,  — - 
Singing  to  those  o'er  whom  once  more 

The  Star  of  the  Morning  gleams. 

L.  S.  C. 


AHMAIDEE. 


PRELUDE. 

Ahmaidee,  a  maid  of  Caucasus, 

Sits,  at  the  twilight  hour, 
By  the  side  of  a  child  of  the  missions, 

In  Haiasdanian  bower. 
The  toils  of  the  day  are  over ; 

In  an  Eden  evening  sun 
They  dream  their  dreams  together, 

When  the  day's  toils  all  are  done. 
Ahmaidee,  a  maid  of  the  mountains, 

Bearing  in  form  and  face 
Those  lines  of  matchless  beauty 

Which  still  adorn  her  race,  — 
A  race  whose  dim  traditions 

Trace  through  chaotic  years 
To  Patriarch  Togarmah,2 — 

As  the  child  at  knee  still  hears,  — 
Whose  honored  grandsire,  Japhet, 

On  a  mount  in  Haiasdani  stood 
When  he,  with  his  father's  household, 

Alone  escaped  from  the  flood. 

And  there  in  the  land  of  Eden, 

In  Harpoot's3  college  walks, 
The  maid  of  Caucasus  muses, 

And  with  sweet  simplicity  talks 
Of  the  legends  and  loves  of  her  people, 

In  return  for  the  classic  lore 
Which  devout  and  earnest  woman 

Has  brought  to  Armenia's  shore. 


162  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Ill  that  land,  the  dream  of  the  poet, 

Haiasdani,  Eden  clime, 
To  a  people  crushed,  submissive, 

The  truth  returns  at  last; 
And  they  sit,  in  reverent  wonder 

That  the  refluent  wave  sublime 
Returns  where  its  living  waters 

First  laved  the  storied  past. 

And  I  will  tell  you  the  legend 

That  our  modern  Ahmaidee  told, 
Her  eyes,  so  wistful,  pleading, 

With  the  look  of  a  startled  fawn  ; 
And  her  wealth  of  woman's  glory, 

Just  touched  with  a  tinge  of  gold, 
Which  the  rays  of  an  amber  sunset 

Changed  not,  though  they  fell  upon. 

Nor  wonder  that  sultan  and  caliph 

Seraglio  and  palace  adorn 
With  these  blooms  of  Caucasian  beauty  ; 

Nor  that  in  marts  they  are  sold 
B}r  those  robber  Koords,  their  captors  ; 

Nor  that  they,  dejected,  forlorn, 
Hear  the  sound  of  .money-changers, 

And  look  with  disgust  on  the  gold. 

For  to-day  the  shah  and  the  sultan, 

In  lives  of  most  brutal  lust, 
With  the  sanction  of  Islam's  prophet, 

And  the  law  of  a  tyrant's  will, 
Crush  these  flowers  of  the  mountains, 

Trample  them  into  the  dust ; 
And  woman's  holiest  mission 

They  lose  the  right  to  fulfil. 

To  be  lover,  wife,  and  mother, 

These  splendid  daughters  of  earth 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  163 

May  not  hope  for  ;  but  lustful  caresses  ; 

The  toy  of  a  revelling  hour. 
They  whom  this  foul  fate  seizes 

May  never  know  the  worth 
Of  home,  the  best  joy  of  woman, 

Nor  pure  love's  blessed  dower. 

To  our  Ahmaidee  is  dawning 

The  light  of  a  better  day 
Than  ever  arose  to  her  vision 

In  the  brightest  of  her  dreams 
By  the  side  of  the  river  Kura, 

Of  Stamboul  or  Cathay, — 
The  light  of  homes  which  the  gospel 

Gilds  with  its  blessed  beams. 

• 

"  Whence  was  her  name,  Ahmuidee?" 

The  maiden  from  over  the  seas 
Had  asked,  and  waited  the  answer. 

The  toils  of  the  day  were  done, 
And  they  strolled  in  the  early  evening, 

Fanned  by  sweet-scented  breeze, 
For  a  rest  from  the  Sage  of  Korene,4 

In  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

And  there,  in  an  arbor  resting, 

O'erlooking  the  nestled  town, 
By  the  side  of  that  ancient  river 

Which  has  its  source  and  flows 
On  through  the  region  of  Eden, 

From  a  mount  of  a  world's  renown, 
There,  as  limpid  and  crystal, 

From  Ararat's  melting  snows, 

Not  in  her  broken  English, 

Touched  by  Arminian  tongue, 
As  its  musical  flow  and  accent 

In  its  cadence  rose  and  fell, 


164  OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Which  Haiasclinian  poets 
Of  old  so  sweetly  sung ; 

I  catch  but  occasional  cadence, 
When  it  suiteth  my  ballad  well. 


I. 


"  When  the  first  Grand  Caliph  Ahmed,5 

And  the  great  ^hah  Abbus6  fought, 
To  the  proud  old  chief  Togarmah,7 

Of  Haiasdinian  clan, 
The  great  shah's  signal  triumph 

The  fate  of  a  captive  brought ; 
And  he  with  forty  thousand 

Was  carried  to  Ispahan. 

"  His  only  child,  Ahmaidee, 

The  joy  of  his  life  and  pride, 
Was  also  torn  from  his  castle 

With  maid  and  serving-man, 
From  vineyards  and  flocks  encircling 

The  grand  old  mountain  side, 
Toward  Indus,  past  Kura  and  Arras,8 

And  the  domes  of  Lenkoran.9 

"Leontius,10  bard  and  lover, 

With  the  captives  proudly  trod, 
With  look  of  scornful  sadness 

On  his  noble  yet  youthful  face, 
And  a  lingering  glance  at  the  mountains, 

A  reverent  step  on  the  sod ; 
With  composure  and  grace  befitting 

A  noble  though  conquered  race. 

"  Sadly  the  caravan  journeyed 
Many  and  weary  days, 


OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS.  165 

Despoiled  their  homes  and  humbled 

Their  nation's  name  and  pride. 
Persia's  luxurious  gardens 

Tempt  in  vain  their  gaze, 
And  they  wept  at  sight  of  the  vineyards 

On  Elburz's11  sunward  side. 

"  Southward,  past  Koom  and  Teheran,12 

Where  the  victor  his  pageant  displays 
To  loyal  lords  and  ladies 

And  princes  of  royal  line ; 
And  then  the  tumult  and  insult 

Of  the  rabble's  vulgar  gaze, 
Made  wild  by  the  great  shah's  triumph, 

Inflamed  by  lust  and  wine. 

"  Togarmah,  with  jewels  secreted 

In  a  hollow  sandal  string, 
Gems  whose  lustre  had  glistened 

And  gleamed  for  centuries  past ; 
From  the  hands  of  his  fathers  descended, 

A  ransom  fit  for  a  king  ! 
Of  that  line  of  mountain  princes, 

Alas  !  he  was  the  last.13 

"  And  during  the  revel  attending 

The  great  Shah's  proud  return, 
The  soul  of  the  old  Caucasian, 

Too  proud  to  bear  his  fate, 
Yielded  its  earthly  dwelling, 

And  went  to  his  rest  to  learn 
What  was  a  patriot's  welcome 

At  Paradise's  golden  gate. 

"  His  blessing  to  Ahmaidee 

And  lover  he  gravely  gave  ; 
And  giving  the  precious  sandals 
Bade  them  be  brave  and  strong ; 


OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Bade  them  give  him  Haikan  burial 
In  a  hidden  mountain  grave, 

And  bade  them  escape  with  their  jewels 
Ere  they  had  journeyed  long. 

"  As  they  journeyed  from  Teheran 

On  toward  Ispahan, 
The  scattered  guarding  columns 

Grew  riotous  in  the  rear, 
Relaxing  their  martial  rigor ;  — 

A  tradei  from  Seistan,14 
For  barter  with  the  captives, 

With  two  fine  steeds  drew  near. 

"Their  necks  like  softest  satin, 

Their  nostrils  like  pearly  shells, 
Limbs  so  slender,  and  rounding 

Gracefully,  strong,  and  full, 
Where  the  tremulous  muscle  fibre 

Into  haunch  and  shoulder  swells, 
And  eyes  full  of  fire,  yet  tender; 

With  a  rein  you  need  not  pull. 

rf  Those  noble  steeds  the  Afghan 

Trader  cautiously  brought 
To  the  columns  of  the  captives, 

With  seeming  only  to  gaze 
With  an  eye  of  curious  wonder  ; 

With  craft  a  purchaser  sought. 
While  he  left  the  docile  creatures 

To  quietly  quaff  and  graze. 

"Two  suits  of  Persian  texture, 

Such  as  worn  by  noble  youth, 
Leontius  had  secreted, 

Waiting  such  time  and  chance 
As  fate  might  bring  the  watchful ; 
Believing  the  sacred  truth 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  IT) 7 

That  ever  on  those  that  trust  him 
Rests  Allah's  protecting  glance. 

"  For  Islam's  faith  had  invaded 

From'  the  east,  the  south,  and  west, 
Displacing  Nazareth's  prophet. 

Though  our  people  still  worshipped  him, 
On  the  Koran's  crude  traditions 

Unconscious  his  thoughts  would  rest. 
Allah  was  God  ;  but  his  knowledge 

And  worship  were  ever  sadly  dim. 

"Bela  and  Dasti,  the  Afghan 

Named  two  of  his  fairest  steeds, 
Imported  from  Djebel  Akhdar,15 

By  ship  over  Oman  sea  ; 
They  are  all  that  brave  Leontius, 

Chafing  with  waiting,  needs, 
With  lover  and  two  attendants, 

To  the  west  by  night  to  flee. 

"With  cunning  craft  and  foresight 

The  Afghan  thought  in  that  throng 
Might  chafe  some  haughty  captive, 

Restive,  and  rich,  and  bold, 
Who  would  gladly  give  price  of  ransom, 

Nor  stand  to  parley  long 
Before  he  would  gladly,  in  silence. 

For  the  steeds  give  jewels  or  gold. 

"  And  he  had  reckoned  wisely  ; 

And  he  clutched  with  eager  hand 
The  jewel  they  gave  in  purchase  ; 

Nor  more  eagerly  took  than  they 
The  reins  on  their  loving  treasures  ; 

Nor  valued  the  crystal  sand 
A  moment  beside  the  faithful 

Creatures  that  sped  them  away. 


168  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


THE    FLIGHT. 

"  Away,  away,  from  Ispahan, 

Leaving  the  range  of  Astrabad  ; 
Past  the  vales  of  Teheran, 

Under  the  towering  Demevad  ; 
Sighting  receding  Farsistan  ;16 

Sighting  the  hills  towards  Bagdad, 
And  the  gleam  of  the  sentinel  of  the  Van, 

Away,  away,  the  captives  fled, 
Petting  their  panting  and  foaming  steeds 

With  as  fond  caresses 
As  ever  lover  with  gentle  deeds 

The  hand  of  a  lover  presses, 
Wooing  and  urging  the  brave  and  fair, 

The  brave,  proud  steeds  who  bore  them, 
Breathing  to  Allah  and  God  a  prayer 

Into  the  heavens  o'er  them. 
From  the  life  of  a  slave 

The  brave  flees  ; 
From  worse  than  a  grave 

The  maid  who  sees 
The  caliph's  grand  seraglio, 

With  its  eunuch  grim 
AYniting  to  groom  for  his  master, 

As  the  groom  of  his  patient  steeds, 
With  caparisons  and  odors 

And  housings  for  neck  and  limb, 
And  then  the  brute,  to  his  service, 

Dumb  and  unmurmuring  leads. 

"  And  just  this  fate  to  thousands 

Of  Ahmaidee's  race  had  come  ; 
And  just  this  fate  with  horror 

Her  whole  soul  loathed  upon  ; 
While  of  its  fearful  terror 
Her  maiden  lips  were  dumb, 


OLD   CORPORAL    POEMS.  169 

As  she  with  her  valiant  lover 
To  the  west  was  speeding  on. 

"  On  the  Eastern  slope  of  mountains 

.O'erlooking  Persia's  vales, 
They  rest  them  on  their  journey 

Under  the  mellow  stars  ; 
Rehearsing  martial  legends, 

Romance  of  olden  tates, 
Like  a  true  troubadour,  Leontius 

Sang  to  unwritten  bars, 

"  And  there  in  the  gathering  shadows 

Unfolded  the  classic  lore 
Of  Haiasdanian  sages, 

Poets  and  holy  men,  i 

To  wondering  Ahmaidee, 

Who  listened  enthralled  to  his  store 
Of  history  and  legend, 

On  the  slope  of  SulinianJ7 

"  And  one  of  the  tales  he  told  her, 

More  thrilling  than  all  the  rest, 
Was  the  fate  of  Artavasdes18 

Sixteen  centuries  gone ; 
That  he  was  conquered  and  captive 

Gave  the  tale  peculiar  zest, 
And  pity  for  valiant  hero 

Dying  in  Egypt  alone. 

"  While  love  speeds  the  hour  with  swifter  wings. 
Ahmaidee  listens  while  her  lover  sings. 


ARTAVASDES. 

"When  the  eagles  of  Rome  to  Syria  came 
With  Antony,  warrior  of  glorious  fame, 


170  OLD    CORPORAL    POEM--. 

Artavasdes,  then  Haiasdani's  lord, 

Disputed  his  progress  with  banner  and  sword. 

'"He  was  Syria's  master,  and  fought  to  retain 
The  land  the  Seleucids  had  fought  for  in  vain,  — 
This  gem  in  Tigranis's  royal  crown  ! 
He  fought  for  his  kingdom,  and  not  for  renown. 

"But  the  eagles  of  Rome  h'ad  iron  beaks. 
The  Haikan  tiger  vainly  seeks 
To  stay  their  banners  and  engines  of  war, 
And  Antony's  eagles  hold  Syria. 

"It  was  thus  the  last  prince  of  Arsabid's  line 
Aided  a  Syrian  laurel  to  twine 
For  that  Roman's  brow,  who  at  Egypt's  feet 
Lay  laurel  and  sword  and  armor  complete. 

'The  king,  now  a  captive,  with  the  captor's  proud  train, 
Through  Damascus,  along  the  Dead  Sea  plain, 
Haughtily,  sadly,  unmurmuring  moves 
To  the  scenes  of  Mark  Antony's  revels  and  loves. 

' f  Alexandria  yet  was  the  queen  of  the  sea, 
Though  broken  the  Ptolemic  dynasty  ; 
For  the  conquered  queen  had  conquered  her  lord, 
By  lances  more  potent  than  Roman  sword. 

r '  Her  kingdom  was  man  ;  her  love  a  Nile  ' 

Overflowing  its  banks  with  passionate  wile  ; 
Calling  for  love's  most  voluptuous  fruit, 
Panting,  she  paused  for  censure's  cold  bruit. 

'Then  Rome  laid  his  eagles  and  heart  at  her  feet, 
And  though  she  surrenders  is  victor  complete  ; 
And  now  of  his  loyalty  well  to  convince 
He  leads  to  her  throne  Haiasdani's  prince. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  171 

! '  Proud  Egypt  ne'er  brooks  an  unmelting  glance  ; 
Grand  creature  of  impulse,  caprice,  and  of  chance  ; 
As  the  haughty  prince  pleased  not  that  moment's  caprice, 
All  useless  are  ransom  or  hope  of  release. 

rclnto  pyramid  dungeon,  the  Haikan  lord, 
With  no  need  of  slave  to  keep  watch  and  ward  ;  — 
He  will  furnish  no  legions,  no  alliance  form, 
Though  Antony  rage,  and  his  queen  lover  storm. 

f  The  axe  in  the  hand  of  a  Nubian  slave 
Is  poised,  suspended  ;  to  yield  now  will  save 
His  life,  his  throne,  and  the 'semblance  of  power, 
And  proud  Egypt  pleads  with  the  prince  for  an  hour. 

f "  He  yields  not  nor  wavers,  though  melting  her  glance  ; 
Her  spell  has  no  power  his  heart  to  entrance ; 
Aloud  then  to  the  slave  she  angrily  calls, 
And  the  axe  in  his  hands  unerringly  falls. 

'  Back  to  the  revelling,  back  to  the  dance, 
To  billiards  'mid  flourish  of  trumpet  and  lance  ; 
And  a  headless  body  is  floating  the  while, 
Resigned  to  that  monster,  the  god  19  of  the  Nile. 

f  'And  now  in  her  royal  and  gold-gilded  barge, 
Canopied,  panoplied,  floats  down  the  marge 
Of  the  Nile  ;  and  Rome,  with  fond  dalliance  led, 
Gives  never  a  thought  to  his  captive,  dead. 

' f  A  captive  himself,  to  love  and  her  queen, 
He  prizes  no  longer  his  banner's  fair  sheen ; 
And  the  queen  scorns  all  conquest,  solace,  or  home, 
But  the  arms  and  the  heart  of  her  lover  from  Rome.' 

"Ahmaidee,  the  while  these  numbers 
The  young  bard  dreamily  sings, 


172  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

Clasps  the  hand  of  the  maiden 
Who  served  and  with  them  fled. 

"Back  over  sixteen  centuries 
Her  native  devotion  clings 
With  pride  to  the  patriot  hero, 
Haiasdani's  royally  loyal  dead." 


1NTERL  UDE. 

9 

Lift  thy  fair  face,  Caucasus, 

The  sun  shall  follow  the  star,  — 
The  star  of  the  morning  which  shineth 

With  healing  in  his  beams  ; 
The  might  of  His  will  is  stronger 

Than  chains  of  Sultan  or  Czar  ; 
And  over  the  heights  of  thy  mountains 

The  light  of  His  coming  gleams. 


II. 

"Through  the  pass  in  the  Caspian  mountains 

The  captives  dare  not  flee, 
But  laid  their  brave  course  southward, 

Through  the  vales  of  the  silvery  Van  ; 
Braving  rather  the  wilder  journey 

South  from  the  central  sea, 
Though  it  led  along  the  border 

Of  the  Koords  of  Koordistan  ; 

"  The  wolves  in  their  native  mountain 

More  fierce  than  savage  beasts, 
Who  had  ravaged  the  vales  of  Caucasus, 
Taking  captive  the  tender  maid  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  173 

As  the  wolf,  their  savage  namesake, 

On  the  sheepfold  greedily  feasts, 
Driving  with  Sultan's  seraglio 

A  thriving  and  barbarous  trade. 

"To  Stamboul's  tyrant  master 

For  centuries  have  been  sold 
Those  suiting  his  lustful  fancy, 

Either  bought  or  captives  in  war  ; 
And  the  captives'  grace  and  beauty 

Measure  their  price  in  gold, 
And  the  wish  of  the  helpless  victim 

Cares  he,  nor  questions  for. 

"For  days  while  they  had  journeyed 

The  mounted  scouts  of  the  Koord,  — 
While  they  by  wondrous  beauty 

Of  valley  and  mountain  glen, 
Enthralled  by  the  spell,  had  loitered, 

By  these  and  love  allured  — 
Were  followed,  watched  in  their  progress, 

By  those  wolves  in  the  form  of  men. 

"And  just  as  they  sighted  the  valley 

Of  the  lovely  lakelet  Van  ; 
Just  as  their  hearts  were  beating 

For  what  the  day  would  bring, 
They  hear  fierce  cry,  —  a  rushing 

From  a  gorge  in  the  Koordistan  ; 
Startled  from  blissful  reverie 

As  the  cries  of  the  robbers  ring. 

rr  The  jewel  they  sought  was  beauty, 

Knowing  not  the  precious  store 
Of  wealth  in  sandal  secreted  ; 

They  seize,  and  quickly  bind 
The  maidens,  nor  pause  to  capture, 

Nor  slay,  nor  conquer  more  ; 


174  OLD   CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Then  sped  through  mountain  passes 
They  knew  so  well  to  find. 

"But  Bela  and  Dasti,  the  faithful, 

To  Leontius  yet  remain  ; 
Through  the  gorge  where  Tigres'  waters 

Pass  through  that  mountain  range, 
The  captors,  flushed  and  exulting, 

Seek  the  way  of  southern  plain, 
To  the  sea  by  Alexandretta, 

AVhence  they  to  ship  will  change. 

"Knowing  this  the  bold  Leontius 

Speeds  swift  to  a  higher  pass 
Where  the  waters  of  Euphrates 

With  dalliance  seaward  flow, 
Which  through  the  same  range,  higher, 

To  southward  likewise  pass, 
Enriching  the  vales  of  Bagdad  ; 

E'en  when  swollen,  sluggish  and  slow. 

"For  he  trusts  by  swifter  riding 

To  be  first  on  Aleppo's  plain, 
Believing  that  love  and  daring; 

With  the  aid  he  will  secure, 
Will  wrest  the  captured  princess 

From  the  agony  of  tne  pain, 
The  bitter,  terrible  anguish, 

Her  pure  heart  must  endure. 

"  And  as  he,  speeding,  rises  and  falls, 

The  heart  of  the  rider  lover  calls  :  — 
*'On,  brave  Bela  and  Dasti  ! 
On,  at  your  master's  will  ; 
On,  for  your  fair  young  mistress 

A  captive  languishes ; 
On,  with  your  swiftest  paces, 
Steady  and  strong,  until 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  175 

The  fear  from  her  heart  and  terror 
With  deliverance  vanishes. 

f '  On,  through  the  vanishing  valley, 

Past  the  receding  Van, 
To  Karput  where  Euphrates 

Southward  quietly  flows, 
On,  down  that  gorge  the  river 

Cuts  through  the  Koordistan, 
Where  Arabia's  sun  first  kisses 

The  chill  from  Ararat's  snows. 

f '  On,  brave  steeds,  bring  your  master, 

Though  foam  fleck  steaming  flanks  ; 
On,  though  nostrils  distended 

Tell  of  the  fearful  strain  ; 
On,  till  your  rescued  mistress 

Shall  kiss  and  caress  her  thanks 
For  bringing  her  faithful  lover 

To  stiind  by  her  side  again. 

Cf  On,  and  shoes  of  silver 

Shall  «race  your  feet  before  ; 
And  gold  on  those  which  follow, 

Shall  gleam  as  you  spurn  the  soil ; 
On,  and  bring  me  safely 

To  Ahmaidee's  side  once  more, 
And  I  will  bless  and  caress  you 

For  faithful  and  splendid  toil.' 

"Thus,  as  he  sped,  Leontius 

His  unspoken  fancy  sang  ; 
And  now  down  the  bank  of  Euphrates 

They  turn  their  panting  steeds, 
While  the  feet  of  their  flying  coursers 

Out  on  the  night  air  rang, 
Though  no  lash  touch  their  shoulders, 

Nor  flank  from  sharp  spur  bleeds. 


17(5  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

"And  lo  !  on  the  plain  of  Aleppo, 

Reinforced  by  horse  and  man, 
They  wait  the  slower  movement, 

By  which  they  surely  know 
Would  soon  come  moving  westward 

The  robbers'  cai  avail, 
With  never  a  thought  of  rescue, 

Moving  unguarded  and  slow. 

"  Nor  wait  they  in  vain  their  coming, 

Though  the  lagging  hours  seem  days  ; 
Our  bard,  in  the  guise  of  a  merchant, 

The  heart  of  hempen  weed, 
Nargileh,  and  scented  spices, 

Temptingly  there  displays ; 
Nor  passes  a  single  horseman 

Without  his  closest  heed. 

"At  length  his  search  is  rewarded  : 

The  captive  with  surprise 
Beholds  her  faithful  Dasti, 

And  knows  her  deliverer  near; 
She  waves  white  hand  as  he  passes, 

And  he  to  the  sign  replies, 
Though  the  only  speech  they  utter 

Is  that  which  the  heart  may  hear. 

"  One  drug  the  merchant  carries 

More  potent  than  iron  chains, 
Than  even  Arabia's  hashish, — 

The  demon  of  Cathay, 
Whose  curse  unrelenting  clinguth 

Where  the  white  blood  of  poppy  stains, 
And  over  its  slaves  holds  ever 

Demoniac  and  deepening  sway. 

"  And  stronger  than  greed  or  caution 
Their  love  for  the  baneful  thing, 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  177 

They  welcome  without  suspicion 

Or  thought  of  danger  near, 
Because  to  sensual  revels 

The  stores  of  the  trader  bring, 
Appetite's  power  disarms  them 

And  lulls  all  warning  fear. 

"While  the  robbers  disarmed  for  revel, 

Bound  by  the  magic  spell, 
Dream  their  enticing  visions 

So  near  the  shores  of  the  sea, 
Leontius  watches  their  progress, 

Marking  the  sleepers  well  ; 
That  again  with  fair  Ahmaidee 

Bela  and  Dasti  may  flee. 

"The  pale  moon  crescent  lingers 

On  the  eve  of  Arabian  night, 
O'er  hill  and  valley  shedding 

Its  mellow,  silvery  beams  ; 
No  living  thing  is  moving 

In  the  watcher's  wary  sight ; 
And  deeper  the  breath  of  the  sleepers 

And  deeper  the  trance  of  dreams. 

"  Saddled  the  steeds  and  waiting 

For  the  master's  cautious  sign  ; 
Ahmaidee,  wakeful  and  watching, 

The  signal  agreed  upon  ; 
When  over  the  mosque  in  Aleppo 

The  moon's  rays  fall  in  line, 
And  from  that  place  of  worship 

Straight  o'er  the  sleepers  shone, 

"With  cautious,  muffled  footsteps, 

Past  sleepers  in  the  tent, 
The  captive  maidens  swiftly 

Pass  curtain  and  sleeping  guard, 


OLD    CORPORAL   POEMS. 

Believing  that  ere  the  flying 
Hours  of  the  night  are  spent, 

She  will  rest  again,  protected 
By  the  blade  of  her  lover  bard. 

"On  again,  Bela  and  Dasti, 

On  to  Euphrates'  tide  ; 
On,  while  master  and  maiden 

Fleetly  in  silence  speed  ; 
On,  for  maid  and  master, 

For  life  and  liberty  and  ride  ; 
Yea,  for  a  maiden's  honor, 

From  a  grave  of  the  living  dead. 

''Twelve  days  had  the  captives  journeyed 

Ere  they  sighted  Aleppo's  domes ; 
In  ten  the  brave  Leontius 

In  swift  impatience  and  dread ; 
In  ten,  for  succor  and  rescue 

From  Van  by  Euphrates  comes. 
Now  the  captive  rides  Dasti  northward, 

Alive,  from  worse  than  dead. 

"Then  northward,  for  freedom  flying, 

They  pass  up  Euphrates'  vales  ; 
For  freedom  from  Koordish  robber, 

For  freedom  from  Sultan's  will  ; 
Though  their  nation's  life  is  broken, 

And  fear  of  the  Euss  assails, 
They  will  on  to  Northern  Caucasus, 

Where  their  children  pay  tribute  still. 

"  Then,  from  the  mouths  of  the  Volga 
To  the  north  Af  Crimean  sea, 

Caucasian  chiefs  and  people 
Dwelt  on  native  soil, 

Until  then,  like  native  mountains 
Lifting  head  to  heaven,  free  ; 


OLD    CORPORAL,    POEMS.  179 

But  henceforth  doomed  to  oppression, 
To  vassalage  and  toil. 

"And  there,  on  the  slopes  of  Caucasus, 

Behind  their  barrier  walls, 
As  defence  from  Koordish  robber, 

Until  seized  by  the  Sclavic  race  ; 
Driven  from  right  and  title 

To  her  ancestral  halls, 
Where  she  had  ruled  from  childhood, 

With  native  and  royal  grace, 

"Ahmaidee,  whose  wondrous  beauty 

Legend  hath  handed  down  ; 
Who  brought  to  her  lover  her  jewels, 

Her  maiden  love,  and  all 
The  wealth  of  regal  nature 

Worthy  of  kingdom  and  crown,  — 
Nor  once,  in  coming  years, 

Desired  her  gifts  to  recall. 

"Leontius,  crossing  the  Kura 

At  Tiflis,  returning  sings 
The  fame  of  Bela  and  Dasti, 

And  the  beauty  of  his  bride ; 
And  time  flies  swift  and  blissful, 

On  joyous,  exulting  wings, 
As  along  Caucasus  passes 

The  bard  and  the  princess  ride. 


CAUCASIAN  MOUNTAIN  SONG. 

r'Each  mountain  glen,  each  towering  peak, 

Each  lovely  lake  and  quiet  glade, 

With  patriot  pride  and  love  1  speak,  — 

Their  fame  no  tyrant  can  degrade. 


180  OLD    COKPOKAL    POEMS. 

Haiasdani  !  Haiftsdani  ! 
Thy  hills  and  dales  are  dear  to  me. 
Though  tyrant  rule,  we  will  not  flee  ; 
They  cannot  crush  our  love  for  thee. 


•  r  • 


I  hie  me  now  to  mountain  glen, 

Where  I  will  rear  my  love's  abode, 
Far  from  the  strifes  of  warring  men, 

Whence  we  with  faithful  steeds  have  rode. 
Haiasdani  !  Haiasdani ! 
Thy  hills  and  dales  are  dear  to  me. 
Though  tyrant  rule,  we  will  not  flee  ; 
They  cannot  crush  our  love  for  thee. 

"A  home  as  sweet  as  poet's  dream 

We'll  found  among  Caucasus'  hills, 
Where  heaven's  pure  air,  and  sun's  clear  beam, 
The  heart  with  life's  sweet  rapture  thrills. 
Haiasdani !  Haiasdani ! 
Thy  hills  and  vales  are  dear  to  me. 
Though  tyrant  rule,  we  will  not  flee  ; 
They  cannot  crush  our  love  for  thee. 

"My  Arab  steeds,  my  mountain  bride, 

The  chief  Togarmah's  choicest  gem  ; 
I  wait,  whate'er  may  betide, 

My  fate  in  native  hills  with  them. 
Haiasdani !  Haiasdani ! 
Thy  hills  and  vales  are  dear  to  me. 
Though  tyrant  rule,  we  will  not  flee  ; 
They  cannot  crush  our  love  for  thee. 

"And  down  through  time's  swift  coming  years 

Will  teach  descendants  to  recall 
Ahmaidee's  beauty,  peril,  fears  ; 

And  Arab  steeds,  who  saved  us  all. 
Haiasdani !  Haiasdani  I 
Thy  hills  and  vales  are  dear  to  me. 


OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS.  181 

Though  tyrant  rule,  we  will  not  flee  ; 
They  cannot  crush  our  love  for  thee.' 

"Then  on  to  old  age  together, 

Founding  a  home  and  a  name  ; 
Hearing  a  noble  household 

Of  pure  Caucasian  youth, 
Well  known  in  the  mountain  for  prowess, 

For  lives  of  unsullied  fame  ; 
Known  well  to  mountain  peasant 

For  chivalry  and  truth. 

"  Two  centuries  now  are  numbered 

Since  to  their  final  rest 
Loyal  descendants  bore  them, 

While  tears  their  faces  lave, 
Obeying  with  faithful  following 

Each  dying'wish  or  behest ; 
Then  plant  their  native  acassia 

Above  their  mountain  grave. 

"Years  before,  with  martial  honors, 

They  had  buried  their  Arab  steeds, 
With  shoes  both  silvern  and  golden 

From  the  old  chief's  precious  store  ; 
Leontius  having  recounted, 

In  noble  verse,  their  deeds, 
And  shod  them  with  gold  and  silver, 

As  by  the  Euphrates  he  swore. 


"O  lady  fair  !  from  western  land, 

Where  never  tyrant's  will  is  known, 

Where  humblest  with  the  proudest  stand, 
Nor  king  nor  prince  imperial  won  ! 

When  I  remember  my  poor  race, 

Whence  Europe's  haughty  hosts  have  coine, 


182  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 

For  proudest  prince  to  us  must  trace, 
Proud  Latins,  and  imperial  Rome  !  — 

M  My  heart  for  my  people  aches  and  bleeds, 

Their  wrongs  I  burn  to  redress; 
And  pray  for  valorous  days  and  deeds, 

When  czar  can  no  longer  oppress, 
Nor  shah  nor  sultan  with  iron  heel 

Grind  Haiasdani  into  the  dust ; 
While  our  brothers  crush  the  hate  they  feel 

In  silence,  because  they  must." 


SURLUDE. 

Ahmaidee  in  silence  is  weeping 

Both  sad  and  joyful  tears, 
Her  glorious  eyes  preserving 

The  beauty  of  her  race, 
Her  words  revealing  a  spirit 

Born  of  heroic  years,  — 
A  spirit  as  purely  transparent 

As  the  light  of  her  luminous  face. 


NOTES. 


NOTES  TO  AHMAIDEE. 

1  Haiasdani,  pronounced  Hay-az-da-ni,  is  the  native  name  of  Armenia,  and  of 
old  it  included  Caucasus,  Armenia  in  Turkey,  and  Eastern  Armenia,  now  under 
the  Shah  of  Persia. 

2  It  is   an  Armenian  tradition  that  they  are  descended  from  Haik,  a  son  of 
Togarmah,  -who  was  a  grandson  of  Japhet.    The  name  is  thus  a  national  one, 
and  is  given  in  the  tale  to  the  father  of  the  heroine  of  this  legend. 

3  Harpoot,  or  Karput,  a  town  on  the  Euphrates,  west  of  Lake  Van,  the  site  of  a 
classical  college  of  the  American  Board  for  educating  natives,  having  a  depart 
ment  for  women. 

*  Moses  of  Korene,  the  best  known  and  most  reliable  native  historian. 
B  Ahmed,  a  foe  of  Persia  in  1604. 

«  Khah  Ablus.  The  Shah  who  conquered  Ahmed  in  1604,  ravaged  and  laid 
Armenia  waste,  carrying  40,000  captives  to  Ispahan. 

7  Togarmah,   a  character  supposed  to    be    among    the    captives,    named    for 
patriarchal  ancestor. 

8  Kura  and  Arras,  two  rivers  flowing  eastward  into  the  Caspian  sea,  in  the 
valley  south  of  the  Caucasus  mountains. 

9  Lenkoran,  a  city  on  the  western  shore  of  the  Caspian  sea. 

10  Leontius,  a  national  name,  and  the  name  of  one  of  their  national  authors. 

11  Mt.  Elburz,  a  lofty  peak  in  the  chain  south  of  the  Caspian. 

l- Koom  and  Teheran,  two  cities  between  the  Caspian  and  Ispahan,  a  city  in 
central  Persia. 

is  Haiasdani's  political  existence  ceased  with  this  invasion,  in  1604,  since  which 
time  they  have  been  subject  to  the  Czar,  the  Sultan,  aj»d  the  Shah.  See  Dulaurier 
and  Prince  Dadian,  Revue  des  Mondes,  in  1854  and  1867. 

u  A  lake  and  its  region  between  Afghanistan  and  Persia. 

15  Djebel  AJchdar,  a  region  in  Oman,  in  Southern  Arabia,  near  the  sea  of  Oman. 

10  Farsistan,  a  mountain  range  south-west  of  Ispahan. 

17  Suliman-yah,  a  mountain  on  the  western  border  of  Persia. 

18  Artavasdes,  King  of  Haiasdani  (who  had  wrested  Syria  from  the  Seleucids), 
who,  in  defending  Syria  in  the  year  55  B.C.,  was  captured  by  Mark  Antony,  and 
carried    to    Cleopatra,   and    was    afterward    put    to    death   by  Egypt's   queen. 
(Armenian  History.) 

i»  God  of  the  A'ile.    The  crocodile,  which  was  sacred  to  the  Egyptians. 


184  OLD    CORPORAL    POEMS. 


NOTE  TO  SIMON  GAREW. 

The  illustration  which  accompanies  the  legend  of  Simon  Garew  is  from  a  photo 
graph  taken  by  tlie  author.  It  in  a  view  in  Gulf  Glen,  Maine,  which  is  situated  in 
Bowdoin  College  grant,  on  the  Ebemee  or  Pleasant  river.  The  glen  is  four  miles 
long,  and  the  river  has  a  fall  of  eight  hundred  feet  in  passing  through  it.  The 
walls  of  the  glen  are  from  seventy  to  three  hundred  feet  high,  and  are  abrupt  on 
both  sides,  perpendicular  much  of  the  way,  and  in  some  cases  overhanging. 
Along  the  west  bank  the  bluffs  are  bold  and  continuous.  The  best  means  of 
approach  is  through  Brownville  and  Katahdin  Iron  Works.  It  is  an  entirely  wild 
region,  and  about  thirty  miles  into  the  veritable  Maine  woods. 

A  good  road  from  R.R.  station  at  Milo  nearly  to  the  glen. 

JIaijus.    The  name  the  Indians  gave  the  glen. 

Gulf.    The  name  the  lumbermen  gave  it. 

This  view  was  published  in  1873  in  the  "  New  York  Graphic,"  accompanying  this 
legend  in  prose,  by  the  author  of  this  work.  The  view  is  midway  of  the  glen, 
looking  north-west.  —  L.  S.  C. 

In  the  autumn  of  1876,  Mr.  Coan,  accompanied  by  his  brother,  Dr.  E.  S.  Coan, 
of  Garland,  Maine,  and  his  only  son,  Leander  K.  Coan,  again  visited  the  gulf  with 
rifle  and  fishing-rod,  anticipating  a  pleasant  time  for  recreation  and  rest  from 
mental  labor.  It  was 

The  moon  when  the  leaves  were  red, 

and  the  view  upon  the  neighboring  mountain  sides  was  grandly  beautiful,  for  they 
are  covered  nearly  to  their  summit  with  forest,  and  the  variegated  tinges  of  scarlet, 
red,  yellow,  and   green  painted  the   scenery  as   no  artist's  pen  can  do. 
But,  like  Garew's  last  visit, 

That  time  the  face  of  the  full  moon 
Shone  not  on  the  face  in  the  rock ; 
For  a  storm  hung  black  in  the  heavens. 

********** 

Singularly  enough,  Mr.  C.  and  his  party  had  contemplated  visiting  the  spot 
where  Garew  made  his  offering  to  the  Great  Spirit,  "  at  the  very  same  hour  of  the 
night."  This  they  were  unable  to  accomplish  for 

That  night  the  storm  was  black.  *• 

Mr.  C.  and  his  brother  made  an  appointment  to  visit  the  place  again  in  three 
years  at 

The  moon  when  the  leaves  were  red ; 

but  at  the  very  time  appointed  the  Great  Spirit  summoned  the  author  to  the  happy 
"hunting  grounds  in  the  beautiful  beyond."  —  E.  S.  C. 


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